Apply Them
by Cryptix
Summary: It was always said he'd make a frightening criminal. No one ever thought he'd take the suggestion seriously, least of all Dr. Watson, newly married and living away from his old friend. Pre-slash.
1. Part I Ch 1: The Breaking of Glass

**PART ONE: Excerpts from the Diary of Dr John Watson**

_**Warning: **Rated T for violence, drug use, angst, mentions of suicide, and not-quite-there slashy undertones._

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**May 21st, 1889**

It is with a heavy heart and a trembling hand that I take up my pen to chronicle the strange events of to-day. I hesitate even to begin putting it into words - surely, there are no words to explain this thing that hardly makes sense in my own head, having witnessed it with my own eyes and ears. I have no fever, however; can find evidence of no drugs or alcohol that would have hindered my judgment; and if it was a dream then it was a most terrible nightmare that I have yet to awake from. The letter by my hand is physical proof of what has transpired. I am forced to accept, then, that this is reality, and it is my solemn duty to portray it as exactly as my rattled nerves will allow.

Six weeks have passed since my marriage, and in that time I have taken up a private practice, the running of which has kept me quite busy. Between that and my new wife and household, I had very little time to myself, much less to see my old roommate Holmes. My thoughts had not turned entirely from him, though, and so it was that this forenoon when a patient cancelled at the last minute and I found myself with a spare hour, I set out to see my dear friend. I confess that I dreaded the meeting a bit, fearing that in my absence he had turned to the false solace of his seven-percent-solution. Now I only wish that was what met me.

The sky was dark and heavy with the threat of rain this morning and I had not much time, so I only walked until I could flag a cab. I had not gone far at all when a brougham pulled up alongside me, and the coachman encouraged me to step up. I was hesitant, as it was much too large a vehicle for a London cab. It seems my fears were justified. No sooner was my head inside that dark, enclosed space then a bag was thrown over it, and I was made aware of at least two other presences with me, one of whom was quick to relieve me of my cane.

Even as the coach set off I began to struggle and yell. One of my captors clapped me upside the head and then struck a sound blow to my chest. I made out a threat upon my person, but it was hard to hear clearly over the ringing of my ears. Much more clearly could I hear snatches of Holmes' perennial advice, and so I ceased my struggling and sought instead to deduce my situation. The irony of it only strikes me now.

My captors did not speak further. I had not Holmes' full sensory knowledge of London, and we rattled over many twists and turns, so I was well and thoroughly lost by the time we pulled to a stop some half-hour later. I was dragged from the coach and guided by rough hands, stumbling from lack of my cane and from the protests of my old wound in this damp weather, through at least two doors. The bag was then lifted from my eyes, my stick thrust into my hands, and the door behind me closed while I was still blinking away my disorientation.

The room I had been lead into was small, some ten feet by sixteen, illuminated by a single lamp that left shadows to gather in the corners. The wood beneath my feet was bare, and indeed, the only furniture was a single table in the center with a chair pulled up to it. Papers lay strewn about its surface, and upon the chair was lain a cheap violin and fiddlestick. Heavy curtains flanked the only window, but were being held aside, and the gloomy view was blocked by the tall, gaunt figure of a man. I felt some immediate measure of relief when I recognized his presence.

"Holmes." My first thought was for his health, if he had been handled roughly as I had. "Are you alright?"

He did not acknowledge my presence at once. I started forward with the intention of checking him for wounds, but he turned to me then, and the strange gleam in his gray eyes stopped me in my tracks. "How sweet," he said, and there was no mistaking the tinge of bitterness in his voice. "I am fine, doctor."

"Holmes, where are we?"

"Do you like it? We are currently standing in the new headquarters of the criminal underworld." He read the question on my face before I could voice it. "You, my friend, are here because I felt it had been too long since we last spoke."

"Quite the coincidence," I said, much more calmly than I felt, "I was on my way to see you when I was abducted."

I took another step closer, and stopped when he frowned. Another moment and he was beside me, long fingers hovering over the tender spot where I'd been struck. "They attacked you. That was directly against my orders."

Holmes' cryptic murmurings had begun to turn my confusion to fear. Normally I would have allowed him to come to the explanation in his own time, but these circumstances were too fantastic for calm patience. "I'm fine. What are you doing here, Holmes?" He was entirely too composed to have been abducted, I decided, which left only one reasonable alternative. "Are you on a case?"

His laughter startled me, an uncharacteristic bark that was bitter as hemlock. "Yes and no, my dear doctor. I am making cases." He swept a periodical off the table and held it out to me. The paper was dated last Thursday, and I recognized it instantly, for the few details the paper had divulged had made me think of him.

"KING STREET BAKER DISAPPEARS WITHOUT A TRACE," read the headline, and the article went on to explain the wealth of contradictory evidence and the leads that dead-ended almost as soon as they were found. The police were baffled. I looked back at my friend, who wore the strangest expression: a tight smile thinning his lips, eyes glittering, brows tilted up imploringly.

"I don't understand."

His smile flickered; evidently I had disappointed him. "No, I don't expect so," said he. "You are far too unassuming to make such a deduction." He set down the periodical and made a show of lighting his old clay pipe. "You see," said he after a puff, "in my involuntarily imposed solitude, I have come to a most startling revelation. The thought occurred to me that my life was nothing more than waiting for a criminal to commit a crime of enough ingenuity to keep me occupied for a day or two. But you know as well as I that they are not all too common. Letter after letter of petty theft and crimes of passion passed over my table, but I could solve them all by a glance; no need to even leave my rooms.

"So, after some two weeks of 'wallowing in my own self-pity', as you have called it, I endeavored to entertain myself - I set out to create the perfect crime. Oh, don't look so shocked, old boy, you and Lestrade both have made mention of what a great criminal I could be. Come, sit down before you faint on your feet."

I took his offered seat numbly, unable to comprehend what he was saying. Blue smoke curled continually towards the ceiling as Holmes regarded me, his eyes twinkling as he waited for me to find my voice again. Finally I managed to croak, "The baker?"

"Has been transplanted to Belgium and is quietly continuing his profession. I'm sure I could arrange a meeting if you are concerned about his health."

"Holmes... _why_, pray tell, did you abduct a baker and send him to Belgium?"

"Merely to prove to myself that I could," he answered and turned away with a shrug, the picture of casual indifference were it not for the cold glitter of his eyes. "The intricacies that went into the planning were simply extraordinary. They kept me up for no less than thirty hours without distraction. Truth be told, I never planned to carry out the deed. But by the time I had finished, I felt as though I had theorized something revolutionary. I felt obligated to put into practice - to carry out this test of the practical issues that could arise in the process of such a plan. It seems you and the Inspector were right, I have quite a knack for crime, even if I don't carry it out myself. No, there is nothing to even begin to trace back to me - I was at home in Baker Street the whole time, awaiting news - and yet a baker disappeared overnight and is now making his way in Belgium, and Scotland Yard is at even more of a loss than usual. The entertainment value of the deed itself is almost overshadowed by watching them scurry after my false leads, one after another falling apart in their hands.

"Well, I could hardly stop there. When one has a talent for something, one should put it to good use, yes? Observe, my dear Watson, if you haven't already, the clippings on the desk there. I think you might recognize some of them from the recent periodicals. That stunning Bailey sculpture is on a ship bound for the Americas - I'm quite pleased by that one. Tomorrow a vault load of gold is boarding a train to Liverpool, where it will also be packed onto a ship. No motive, no profit, and each and every scene sprinkled with clues to baffle even the best - I imagine my rival Barker will be on some of these trails soon. I do not expect even he to catch any of my network, but for a lucky stumble, and even then I've alibis for all of them."

I had taken a look through the papers as he'd spoken, reading Holmes' scrawled notes and comparing it to the clippings that he had at hand. Random and varied crimes, mostly theft but for the baker's disappearance. He was right, no pattern could be found, no motive, not even a reasonable scapegoat. For all my education I could not - cannot - put a name to the emotions that I felt as I read his notes and listened to his account.

"As I sat working through the details, something occurred to me. It appears I take much more pleasure from smashing the glass to picking up the pieces."

Suddenly I was ignited, his words like a spark to a powder keg. His eyes widened as I crushed a paper in my fist and rose to my feet, ignoring the protests from my old war-wound. "Six weeks, Holmes! Six weeks and how far you have fallen. The once-great Sherlock Holmes reduced to petty theft!" I had more to say, but he sprang forward and leaned his lank form on the table, his eyes dancing with the same fire I felt within me.

"Reduced! My mind has never been so alive, Watson - you know I rebel at stagnation, and this has provided a most fine exercise whenever I should want it. This society protects its possessions with an intriguing amount of passion. From my renewed point of view it is almost an invitation to challenge them. Why should I waste my singular powers waiting for some desperate fool to present their pitifully simple case?"

I surprised even myself when I slammed my fist on the table. "Because that is what is right!"

"Right?" he echoed. "You wish to talk to me about morals, my dear boy? We have stepped over what many consider 'right' many times in our day, don't you agree?"

"That was for a good cause, Holmes. Justice rather than law - helping good people! You're better than this."

He laughed again, but his face was grim. "I think the facts disagree with you, doctor. What have I told you about forming a theory in advance of the facts?" I could not answer, struck dumb by the force of my anger in the face of his dark humour. He took this as cue to go on. "On the contrary, doctor, I do not think I have fallen at all, rather risen above the petty morality of our society. My actions harm no one, and I gain no profit but for entertainment, and better health because of it." He paused, watching as I automatically looked him over from this close vantage and realized that yes, he was much healthier than I had expected to find him. Indignation had colored his cheeks, but there was also a glow about him, an excitement usually only reserved for the midst of a challenging case. I did not know how to feel about that. "Now, my dear Watson, I have a proposition for you."

I frowned, waiting for his proposition, but it did not come. The silence stretched until I realized that he would not continue without my prompting; and though I have always had some stubborn streak, I have also always suffered from terrible curiosity when it came to Holmes, so there was little chance I would last in a waiting game. "What is your proposition, Holmes?"

"I propose you join me."

I intended to leave right that moment. I turned away, hoping that it was disgust that lined my features, and not the moment of consideration, of excitement that I am ashamed to admit leapt in my breast. "Mister Holmes," I said, trying to keep my voice from shaking, "you are delusional. I am going to have to take this to the police."

"I understand." His voice was unnervingly calm, and I knew without looking that he had fixed me with one of his soul-searing stares. "In which case, you must understand that although I have yet to commit anything other than theft and the single abduction, I have little doubt that I could turn my hand to far more heinous crimes, should the need arise."

I nearly lost my footing as I spun to stare at him, too shocked to reply - struck dumb for the second time that hour. On many occasions have I been threatened in my time, both with Holmes and before, but none reached into my chest and took a stranglehold of my heart. None before this. I found that I could not breath, and had the fleeting thought that it would be terribly embarrassing if I were to faint in that moment.

Then, with my heart already in his grasp, he took it and shattered it, with the merest change of his expression. A tilt of his head, a sinister smirk flitting across his lips, grey eyes hard and cold like chips of steel. "You've gone pale, dear doctor. Would you care for a drink?"

I believe I shook my head, though I can't say for certain.

I had to ignore the small, dark voice that asked me why I had refused his offer. _Because I am a gentleman, a law-abiding and god-fearing man,_ I would answer, and yet they felt like insincere excuses, and the voice would not abate in pointing out how intriguing it would be to watch Holmes work again, to see his face constantly alight with new discoveries and new challenges. With the voice in my mind and the weariness in my bones, the walk to the station seemed to stretch on into eternity, but finally I found myself at the threshold. It was only there that a second voice spoke up and made me hesitate.

He hummed and turned his back to me, the broken gaze like a weight lifted and I could breathe again. "Then I really must bid you adieu. It really does not do to be behind schedule. As always, it has been good to see you, doctor."

I went to the door, but he was not quite finished with me yet. "Give my best to your lovely wife," he said, perfectly cordial.

My day was not to end there, though. I could not leave such a thing to sit, and having some friends among the Yard, I hoped that I could at least find some advice, some help for a friend that I still hoped was following some mad whim. I allowed Holmes' brutes to blindfold me and lead me to another carriage, tried again to discern my location but I am sure he had them take as many twists and turns as possible before they deposited me at the opera house. From there I made my way to the police station, limping and slow from a fatigue that suddenly settled into my limbs from the events of a mere hour.

I had to ignore the small, dark voice that asked me why I had refused his offer. _Because I am a gentleman, a law-abiding and god-fearing man,_ I would answer, and yet they felt like insincere excuses, and the voice would not abate in pointing out how intriguing it would be to watch Holmes work again, to see his face constantly alight with new discoveries and new challenges. With the voice in my mind and the weariness in my bones, the walk to the station seemed to stretch on into eternity, but finally I found myself at the threshold. It was only there that a second voice spoke up and made me hesitate.

_'More heinous crimes'_, he had said, and the mere memory of it made my blood chill. And then _'give my best to your lovely wife'_. He - my intimate friend, my longtime companion, flatmate of eight years - could not really bring himself to do such a thing, could he? I clung to this belief as to a shield and stepped into the station.

Things inside were busy (perhaps from the rash of new and strange crimes) and bustling, but not so much that some of the men could not stop and say hello. I was well-known here from my association with Holmes, but the day had not made me amiable, so I did not return their greetings. I turned and shut the door deliberately - trying to stave off the inevitable, I fear. I should have known better than such foolishness.

"Dr. Watson?"

I turned back and gave as polite a smile as I could to constable Clarke, though I fear it was strained. "Clarky. Good to see you." Clarke's young face bore a frown that creased his brow. "Is there something wrong?"

He shook his head. "Not at all, sir. It's just that you have arrived just in time."

"In time for what?" Though confused, I feel that some part of me knew the answer, and was just hoping to be proven wrong.

The constable fished a small envelope from his pocket, plain but for my name written across the front in a delicate hand. He handed it to me as he explained - I only recall the words looking back at them, at the time I could not hear over the pounding of blood in my ears. "It arrived yesterday afternoon for you, sir. There were instructions that we should burn it if you hadn't collected it by noon today."

It was quarter-til. A close calculation. I studied the envelope, bypassing the writing in favor of a smudge of dirt along one edge. Holmes could have told me precisely where it came from, who had carried it, and whether they'd been tipped a shilling or two for the trouble, just from that smudge. I was forced to resort to mundane means. "Who delivered it, may I ask?"

"A street urchin, sir. We haven't opened it since it arrived. I was on my way to destroy it now."

Or Holmes could tell me all of that because he'd been present at its send-off. I slipped open the flat wax seal and withdrew a half-sheet of foolscap with no watermark, folded over and written in the same ink and hand as on the envelope itself. The writing was foreign, but I knew who had penned it before I read the first word.

_Well done, my friend, you are still the righteous man I knew you as. I had hoped, though, you would never have to read this letter. Although I commend your nobility, I mean to reiterate that despite their best intentions, the involvement of the Yard would be an exercise in futility._

_I apologize at the pain my threat must cause you, but it stands. You must understand that this is a delicate web which I weave now, and though they may be stumbling about in the dark, our good inspectors can still manage to upset my work. I cannot allow that to happen. I highly doubt that you have informed anyone just yet, which means that you still have the chance to walk away. As long as everyone else remains unaware of the true score - the inspectors, your lovely wife - they will not have to be... let us be delicate and say, 'removed'._

_So, once again, I present you with a proposition. Speak not a word of what you have seen and heard today. Return home to your wife. I will take no action against you, my good friend, so long as it is only you who knows my secret._

_Perhaps, in your silence, you may reconsider my proposal. I am still where you would expect me to be. My door is always open to you._

_Adieu, friend._

The letter was signed 'John Watson', in the familiar scrawl that I had seen only an hour earlier. Had there been any doubts in my mind as to the sender, that would have dismissed the last of them.

I drew a shaking breath in some effort to calm my nerves. "You say this arrived yesterday?" I asked of the constable still standing near.

He nodded. "Yes, sir. It was about two in the afternoon. What's the matter - it's nothing bad, is it?"

A laugh slipped out of me, a high, jittery thing that was devoid of real mirth. "No, no," I assured him as I slid the letter back into the envelope and pocketed both. I was aware of confusion and suspicion in Clarke's gaze as I turned and hurried away.

Thoughts chased one after the other through my mind, demanding all my awareness though they shed no light or reason upon my situation. Ideas flickered past theories and twined with suppositions, all too chaotic and confused to be of any use. I have some vague recollection of having caught a cab home and greeted a surprised Mary before locking myself into my study and sitting down to write. Even now, looking back on these pages and pages of barely-legible notes, I still cannot make full sense of this day. It is as if the whole world has picked up and shifted three paces to the left, and forgot to inform me, so that I am scrambling to catch up. Every few minutes I catch myself wishing that Holmes were here to make sense of this.

I confess that I have never felt more utterly lost in my life.

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_**Standard disclaimer:** Sherlock Holmes, Doctor Watson, and affiliated do not belong to me. This is probably for good reason._

_**Nonstandard disclaimer:** The seeds of this plot and the events of the first three chapters, though altered and rewritten to fit my own nefarious purposes, do not belong to me. They are borrowed (with permission) from Santai's 'A Brush With The Other Side', and this fic can be viewed as a sort of alternate ending to her story. Show your appreciation by giving her fic a peek once you're done here, hey?_


	2. Part I Ch 2: A Little Thief

**May 25th, 1889**

There is a blister on the pad of my right thumb and a crease cut deep into my index finger, I have held a pen so long and so tightly, yet this is the first time in four days I put it to my journal instead of my notebooks. I saw Holmes again to-day.

After my last run-in with him, I took up newspaper and notepad and began to annotate the strange and unexplained rash of thefts that has descended as a plague upon London. The crimes have increased in number and intricacy, but the objects stolen were so random as to be arbitrary: everything from horses, to paintings, to the entire contents of someone's wardrobe, and most recently the disappearance of a young lady's diary. Every article in every paper we were delivered was combed for facts and hints, as I tried to tease out some common thread. Only once did I pause, long enough to ask my neighbor Anstruther if he would oversee my practice for awhile - I have done the same for him, and he was eager to return the favor. Since then I have spent day and night in the study in this fanatical pursuit, with my patient Mary bringing me meals that I nibble at if I notice them at all. I do not quite know what my goal was - to find evidence to convict my friend, if I can indeed still call him that? To build up my case against him next time we met, in the hopes that this time I would convince him to give up this queer venture? (If that was my goal, then I seem to have failed spectacularly.)

Quite a fright I must have looked, unshaven and eyes red with sleeplessness, surrounded by newspapers and notebooks and pens broken from furious scribbling. I leaned back to rub my eyes, and only then noticed Mary hovering over my shoulder, no doubt there to fetch the tea tray that I could not remember her bringing in.

"John..." She placed a trembling hand on my shoulder, concern written all over her features.

"They are completely unconnected, Mary. I don't understand it. There has to be a link somewhere," I found myself saying. I'm not quite sure I even know what I was talking about. Shock and lack of sleep make poor bedfellows where coherent thought is concerned.

"Or perhaps not," said she in the gentle manner of a governess speaking to a stubborn child. "They may be completely unrelated."

"I highly doubt it."

Her smile flickered away. "Maybe you should ask Mr. Holmes. Certainly he should have something to say on the subject."

I nearly flinched at the mention of his name. "I wouldn't like to trouble him."

She was taken aback by the anger in my voice. Without answering, she took up the tea tray and left, though I saw her shake her head before the door was closed. Guilt struck back my anger. How absurd it was that I should blame Mary at all for my troubles - no one deserved my temper less. Mary was a good wife, who had stood by me even as I neglected her in favor of this insane pursuit. Clearly I was losing track of what was important. I had the brief thought of if this is what it was like for Holmes between cases, cooped up and cut off but for the papers.

I resolved to leave the study and clear my head. After shaving and dressing in clothes other than those I had worn for the last four days, I tucked Holmes' letter into my waistcoat pocket and came down the stairs. Mary peered out of the living room, relief on her uncommon face.

"Are you going out, John?"

I smiled and took her hand. "Yes, I'm going for a walk to clear my head. I will be back in a couple of hours."

"Be as long as you wish," she replied, kissing my cheek. "It does no good to be cooped up in one room for so long."

"I whole-heartedly agree, Mary," I said, marveling that I was so lucky to find such a forgiving wife. "It seems to take a toll on the temper. I am sorry."

She smiled and nodded. "I know, dear. Will you be down for dinner to-night?"

"I think I will."

Outside it was a fine spring day, the sun shining through a clear sky without a trace of the earlier storm. As I joined the bustle in the street, with no particular destination in mind, I glanced at those around me with as much subtlety as I could manage. I did not know for certain but had the feeling Holmes would have me watched, and he would not employ any who made themselves obvious, so it was for little signs that I would have to look. I was just laying my suspicions upon a young man in gray tweed with a dark beard, when something crashed into me from behind. I caught myself before I fell and turned to find a young street Arab picking himself off the ground.

"I'm sorry, mister!" he cried.

Being used to pick-pockets and naturally suspicious of urchins, I checked my pockets quickly and found my waistcoat pocket quite empty. A corner of paper poked out of the child's fist.

"I would like that back," I said, holding out my hand.

The boy grinned and took off running, forcing me to follow. He was a quick little scrap and I a middle-aged cripple, but I could make good time when the need arose, and though I lost sight of him once or twice I always managed to catch up again shortly. He led me on a merry chase, out of the busy lane and down a side-street, then onto a row of grand houses, the pavement populated only by a couple not far ahead. The boy made to dash past them, but the man slung out a long arm and caught the little urchin about the shoulders. "Now, now, young sir, where are you off to in such a hurry?" I slowed as I recognized the austere figure, who turned to his young female companion with a smile. "You'll have to excuse me, madam, I have other business to attend to. I shall inform you if I come across anything."

"Thank you again, Mr. Holmes." She gave a sidelong glance to the urchin and then to me before she hurried away.

Holmes smiled at me as I approached, keeping a hold of the boy's arm. "Good to see you, Watson," he greeted.

I did not deign to answer him. Instead I leant against the iron fencing, getting my breath back and wincing at the pain in my leg. Holmes' brow furrowed just a little as he glanced down. "You should know better than to strain your injury after such a long period of inactivity, doctor. Do keep it moving to stop it seizing up."

"I didn't plan to be chasing a pickpocket when I stepped out." I glared at him as best I could and set to massaging the old wound.

"Pickpocket?" I could not see his face, focusing as I was on my leg, but I knew his brows rose in feigned surprise.

"Don't pretend to be surprised, Holmes."

"I'm sure I don't know what you mean."

I shot a dark look at him. "Must I spell it out before you will confess? The facts are thus, Holmes: The moment I step out of my house, I am robbed of something of no intrinsic value. The thief, though quick and being pursued by an invalid, does not manage to shake me but instead leads me directly to the street where you just happen to be. Not to mention that you often employ street Arabs in your schemes, and you are loathe to ever leave Baker Street at this time. Quite a damning case, wouldn't you say?"

The vitriol in my voice fell on deaf ears. Holmes' eyes sparkled with something akin to pride. "Coincidence is a remarkable thing," he remarked with forced insouciance. He plucked the letter from the boy's pocket, surreptitiously slipping a shilling into its place. The boy took off as Holmes studied the wrinkled envelope and smiled. "I didn't think you would keep this."

"It helps to remind me of your disguised writing." It was an excuse, and a weak one. In truth I wasn't certain why I had kept it.

"Ah, I see. I had wondered what you were obsessing over." He held the letter out to me. I snatched it away and returned it to my waistcoat pocket.

"What makes you think I'm obsessing?" I resisted the urge to look myself over, knowing that would only implicate me further. Instead I stared a challenge straight into his gray eyes.

He stretched out his left hand and tapped points upon it with one long forefinger. "You have not left your house in four days." I did not ask how he knew this. "Your pallor and the dark rings of your eyes indicate fatigue, to say nothing of the pronounced redness. Your hands are stained with spatters of ink, suggesting a number of broken pen-nibs, and your right forefinger and thumb show creases of too tight a grip upon a pen. Though you have shaved - albeit hastily - and changed your clothes, your hair is not in its usual state of regimented neatness, as if you have run your hand through it a number of times, probably due to frustration. Really, my dear Watson, the symptoms are nothing short of obvious. Clearly you have been obsessing, and it is no great conjecture to think what it is over - and a peek through your study window confirms it."

I was somehow unsurprised that he had been looking through my windows.

"I trust you made some progress?" His eyes glinted with genuine curiosity.

"If I had gotten anywhere, I wouldn't be here," I snapped, more violently than I meant to. What was supposed to be a relaxing walk was only serving to remind me of all my frustrations.

His eyes widened a moment at my tone, then his face returned to placid stoniness. His voice was quiet when he said, "Scotland Yard, then."

"Yes, Holmes. Scotland Yard." Strange that I felt some measure of shame at that admission. It wasn't as though he was an innocent, and he had threatened me - why should he not be turned over to the Yard?

He busied himself looking over the grand building we were standing in front of, without really seeing it, I am sure. "Have you forgotten what I said?"

"How could I? It's not everyday that my close friend makes threats upon innocent lives. I simply hoped that our friendship meant something more to you."

"The same friendship that meant so much to you that you abandoned it."

"Is that what you think? Holmes, I never abandoned you, I just-."

"Then please explain to me why I have been alone in Baker Street for a month and a half, with naught but the landlady and cocaine to keep me company." Though his words were harsh, they were spoken softly, with a tentativeness that was uncharacteristic of my friend. Even so, I felt a flare of anger.

"Because I foolishly assumed that a grown man could take care of himself for a few short weeks!" I struck my cane against the pavement and felt some measure of satisfaction when he flinched. "Because I have been almost buried in the amount of work I have had. I was on my way to visit you when you had me abducted! Would that I _had_ found you in Baker Street in the grips of your seven-percent solution!" By the sudden set of his jaw I knew that I had gone too far. I calmed myself and spoke again, softly. "Look, Holmes. If my leaving has brought this upon you, then I apologize with all my heart. Believe me when I say that I have missed you these past weeks. Hardly a day has gone by that I have not thought of my good friend Holmes and wished that I had the time to see him. I have seen the error of my ways - I should have-"

"What's done is done," he interrupted my confession. "It is useless to conjecture on shoulds and might-haves."

"Holmes, my dear friend, I beg of you-"

"Don't, Watson. Begging does not become you." His teeth were clenched and his nostrils flared, eyes bright as they pointedly did not turn my way, and I knew that it was useless to appeal to him. He was set on this path and determined not to be swayed from it. I regarded him at length in silence.

"Who was that woman you were speaking with?"

"Is this a part of your investigation?"

"No, it's simple curiosity."

"She is a potential client. Like I said before, I take no personal gain from my new occupation. I must keep up with the rent somehow, now that it is all on my shoulders."

"What is the case?"

"A theft." Through his cold facade I could see that he struggled against a smile. "Today seems full of coincidence."

"I thought that coincidence did not exist."

"Indeed, my dear Watson."

"You do plan to return whatever has been taken, don't you, Holmes?"

He lost the battle against his smile. "Are you implying this is my fault? You should not make assumptions ahead of the facts, old boy." He chuckled. "I intend to return the items in question to their rightful owner, just as soon as I have had full interviews of those involved and tracked the items back down."

"Why do you bother? Surely you already know all there is to know about the crime."

"Yes, I do, but it is somewhat intriguing to study these things from another point of view."

I shook my head. "I do not think I will ever understand your mind."

"My offer still stands. You could observe first-hand."

"No thank you, Holmes," I said firmly.

He shrugged one shoulder. "Can't blame me for trying." He checked his pocket watch, and then drew an envelope from his pocket. "I received this telegram yesterday. You may wish to use it in your investigation."

Suspicious, I took the envelope from him and studied it. "Who is it from?"

"An associate of mine. It contains some vague details about something he wishes to carry out with my help. Perhaps you will be able to extract some usable information from it - even enough for an arrest."

I blinked, thinking for a moment that he meant of himself. The true answer struck me a moment later. "You want to betray him."

"Such a strong word. Betrayal assumes that I have some obligations to this man. There is still a part of me that wishes for justice for those crimes that have gone unpunished. I must admit, though, that there is a new voice telling me that one more in gaol is one less in competition with me."

I frowned. "What do you expect me to do?"

"Do what you will. Burn it. Send it on to our friends in the Yard. I don't think I can sway your decisions as I once could." He turned to look at me finally, mischief glittering in his eyes. "That does not, of course, mean that I won't try." With those cryptic words he tipped his hat and then walked away, disappearing around a corner. I made no effort to follow him. I leaned heavily against the fence and turned my eyes to the telegram in my hands.

When I finally opened it, it was to a page full of a numbers in a seemingly random order, from 1 through 25. A number cipher, then, and I began swapping out letters for it even as I stood there. By inference I was able to puzzle out the full message in only a few minutes.

It was insultingly easy even for me to decode, so it was clear why Holmes was so disinterested in letting them keep their liberty. Holmes valued intelligence and had little patience for anything less. I folded it into my pocket with Holmes' older letter and began to make my way back, my mind no clearer than when I had set out.

As I had promised, I took dinner with Mary, though I am afraid I was not good company. I spent the evening smoking cigarette after cigarette and pacing our sitting-room in agitation, unable to settle upon the right course of action. Were I to go to the police, it was possible that they would arrive at the wrong time and arrest Holmes as well - for all that I knew he had become, I clung to some hope that I could turn him back to the right path. And yet, if I ignored the information, I would be allowing more crime to go unpunished.

I think, now, that I have hit upon the only reasonable course of action in this case. I cannot help but feel guilty as Mary passes yet another night alone in our marriage bed, but it cannot be helped - I cannot stand by and let this happen. Evil thrives when good men do nothing, as the saying goes.

I only hope that I may return with some happy news.


	3. Part I Ch 3: Close Call

**May 25th, 1889, addendum**

I had hoped that I might return from this excursion with some good to report, but alas, I believe I may have made things worse. I find some bitter humor there, if only because I am too tired for anger, having expended all of my reserves of it in these last few trying days.

After my last entry, I took up my coat and stick and headed for the arranged meeting place: the cellar of an abandoned apartments, on a street with poor lighting and poorer reputation.

It was well into night when I arrived and there was only a sliver of a moon to light my way. A few loosened boards over a broken side-window allowed for my entry into the cellar, but I stopped before I dropped down. With some time before the players were scheduled, I could afford some care. I checked the street for the patrolman, then knelt by the window and struck a match. Its light chased shadows back into the corners of the cellar, revealing some of a dusty, barren room with a door at one side. No chance for concealment but for the side-room, unless I were to wait outside the window, which seemed unwise. I lit a second match and dropped it to the floor, observing in the brief flicker of light that though the room was full of dust, the floor was not undisturbed. It had been used as a meeting-place before, then, and my passage would not be noteworthy. With this information in mind I dropped in, caught up the burned-out matchsticks, and in the pitch black found my way to the side-room. The door I left open a crack, and positioned myself behind it, so that I would not be immediately obvious if one were to enter.

Within that little room I waited for who knows how long, more than an hour I am sure, though the passage of time is a tricky thing when one is waiting for something in the pitch-black. I passed the time in anxious consideration of what might proceed and how, exactly, I could do something about it - alternately I cursed that I had not brought my revolver, and feared that I could not have brought myself to its use anyhow. It is one thing to shoot a man in the fire of passion, protecting that which I hold dear; it is quite another to premeditate the action against a man who I knew nothing about. Heaven forbid I even consider taking it up against Holmes.

Finally there came a creaking of the floorboards, and the sound of footsteps descending the stone staircase. Lantern light filled the room beyond, and with the increased visibility I realized that the door stood a little off the wall and I could see some of the main cellar.

"He ain't here yet," said a deep, gruff voice from just beyond my field of view. "I don't like it, Shaun."

"Relax, Gregg." The second voice was high and querulous. "He'll be here."

"How d'ya even know this guy Sigerson, anyhow?" As he spoke the ruffian moved further into the room, giving me a glimpse of a broad back on a tall frame, a dark-bearded face that he turned this way and that in agitation, with beady eyes that glared their suspicions at every corner of the room before fixing on his companion. It was clear that he had been in a great many fights in his time, and he bore the marks with some pride.

"An acquaintance of a contact. You know how these things work. He's good people, though, s'long as you match his price he'll get it done and without a hitch."

Gregg snorted. "So nobody knows him. That's convenient."

"Relax, you bloody great sot. Last thing I need is you messing this up."

Further arrivals were heralded by the creaking of floorboards over our heads. The second man moved into my view then, shifting to stand beside Gregg. Physically he was a lesser version of his companion in every way: not quite as tall, not quite as solid, not quite as dark, not quite as old, nowhere near the scars nor the experience that came with them, but nonetheless there was danger to be found in him.

At the top of the stairs two pairs of feet appeared, one after the other. "Good evening, gentlemen." I recognized the voice of Holmes, gritty and deep but still unmistakable to my trained ears.

"You're late," Shaun accused as Holmes and his companion descended the stairs.

"Yes, yes, I apologize," said the detective come criminal as he stepped into the light. Such was his disguise - a flaxen-haired older gentleman of clear Norse extraction - that even I had some difficulty in recognizing him. The man who came with him was large and clearly a fighter; a bodyguard. "There was something I wished to check on before I arrived." Beneath bushy eyebrows bright eyes darted about the cellar. My heartbeat stuttered when they fell upon the door and narrowed almost imperceptibly. I wondered what I had left to make him aware - footprints, undoubtedly; perhaps the imprint of my cane.

"Shall we get down to business?" Shaun asked.

"Of course. Time is a precious commodity, gentlemen, and mine is of some value. What is it you wish for me to arrange?"

I witnessed Shaun taking a photograph from his pocket and handing it to my friend. "I trust you know what this is. I am willing to-"

"Is there a problem?" Holmes interrupted. I realized with no little amount of horror that Gregg had started towards my door, a wild flare in his dark eyes. I flattened myself back against the wall and closed my eyes, foolishly willing myself to invisibility.

"What are you doing?" Shaun whispered urgently.

"If I am boring you, I could take my work elsewhere," Holmes added.

The door flew open despite their warnings, the knob striking my side quite soundly. To my credit, I made no sound, though a number of ungentlemanly oaths flew through my head. As well I should have said them, for a moment later the door was pulled away, and a solid hook to my jaw nearly spun me around. Dazed, I was unable to put up a fight when the ruffian dragged me by my collar into the room.

"I told you he couldn't be trusted! This man was spying on us."

Holmes' voice could not have been calmer. "Pray explain how this throws my honor into question."

"Do you know this man?" asked Shaun.

I had been tossed onto the floor between all of them. Holmes knelt by me and made a show of studying my face, brow furrowed slightly. "No, I don't believe I do," he said finally as he rose.

When I heard the distinct sound of a knife being drawn, I reached for the stick that had slipped from my fingers. "Then you won't mind if I kill him," Gregg said, his heavy boot coming down on my hand.

"Do what you will," said Holmes.

I was wrenched back by my hair and a cold blade laid across my throat, but all that I could see was Holmes in his disguise. He was filling a corncob pipe with tobacco, the picture of indifference. At that moment I honestly believed he would let them kill me, and the thought filled me with such despair that I could not have moved to defend myself even if I had wanted to. A brain without a heart, I have described Holmes before, but only now did I truly believe it.

"But," he said suddenly, still without looking up. "I would warn you that this is clearly not just some street urchin or worker whom no one would miss. Observe his fine clothes, his pocket-watch and cane. No doubt he has family - a wife, perhaps - who would be distraught were he not to return. Perhaps even a few friends in powerful positions -" he caught my eye, then, "-who would take serious action were he to go missing."

"How do you know that?" came Shaun's testy voice. "He might be a lonely bachelor who just happens to have a little money."

"It doesn't matter anyway." The knife pressed harder into my skin. "Dandy gentleman or lucky tramp, he's seen our faces and heard us talking. If we let him go, he'll go straight to Scotland Yard."

Holmes lit his pipe and puffed at it in contemplation, and besides the bodyguard, all three of us others waited with bated breath for his results. "Put him out now. Once we are done, I shall take care of him."

"What will you do with him?" Shaun asked.

"My methods are my own. You may be sure, however, that he will tell no one about what he has seen." A sinister promise dripped from his words, so sincere that I felt chilled. Holmes' masterful presence left the ruffians no choice but to acquiesce. The blade was removed from my throat. A moment later, pain burst at the back of my head, and I fell into darkness.

When I came to, it was in a moving carriage, and as the sky peeking in through the open windows was still quite dark, I could not have been under for too long. Clouds had risen to cover the sliver of moon, but streetlights reached in as we passed them, providing irregular illumination of the carriage-box. Curled into the far corner of the carriage from me was Holmes, corvine and gaunt once more, long nervous fingers drumming upon his knee and his intense gaze set upon me. There was no sign of his bodyguard.

"What possible thought could have passed through your mind?" he murmured. For a moment I was unsure if he was speaking to me at all.

"What?"

"I should have known better, I suppose, and yet I foolishly assumed you would make your information available to the Yard, or arranged to put it to use in some other manner. Never did I think you would - I wouldn't have given you such a hint if I'd known you'd follow it up yourself. Do you realize how much was at stake down there?"

"No, Holmes, I don't. Did I disrupt your precious plans?"

"No, Watson!" He jerked forward with such violence that our knees struck. His fingers pressed down white against the bench at his sides, and his eyes glowed like two stars with an excitement that I well knew, only now it was turned by anger. "I don't think you realize how close you came to death tonight. Did that cold blade against your throat not give you some indication? What if those ruffians had not believed me; if I had been any slower or less sure in my faculties? You might have bled to death on the floor of a dirty cellar, and for what? What did you expect to accomplish, Watson?"

I had shrunk back at the force of his response, but now I leant forward, resting my elbows on my knees. "I don't know, Holmes," I admitted. "I honestly do not know. My conscience rebelled at the thought of sitting by and doing nothing, but going to the Yard would put too much at risk. That I chance it alone was the best compromise."

His lips pursed, and he sank back again, bringing his fingertips together in front of his chin. "If it is I that you are worried for," he finally said, "you may cease. I know better than to put myself in danger of arrest."

"Even you can make mistakes, Holmes."

"I know, my dear boy," he said with surprising gravity, "I know."

Holmes sank into a far-away silence and would say nothing else for the remainder of the trip. Only when the carriage had deposited me in front of my home did he sit up and fix me again with his piercing gaze. "I will give you no more hints, Watson - you'll have to follow these cases in the papers like everyone else. I cannot stand to see you endanger yourself. My offer stands; you know where to find me."

* * *

_The ruffians Shaun and Gregg are Santai's creations._

_This chapter marks the end of my rewriting Santai's work, and the beginning of the alternate take on things._


	4. Part I Ch 4: Madness

**June 1st, 1889**

Holmes has been as good as his word. I have heard nothing from him since our last meeting, nearly a week ago today. The papers continue to be wrought with crimes bearing his signature, if only one knows where to look for it. Still they have no pattern but for the many tangled leads they all provide. I have all but given up on looking for one, except in the vague hope that he will grow bored with merely laying out individual crimes and take it a step further. Instead I try in vain to predict his next move based upon the information in our morning editions. I dare not take my investigation further, now knowing for certain that he is having me watched.

I fear that I am going quite mad, that I have become a monomaniac and Holmes is my _idee fixe_. Even without his physical presence I find my every waking moment consumed by him. He haunts my sleep, even, as I find myself rousted night after night by phantom notes upon his Stradivarius. I wonder if he is eating properly, if his moroccan case indeed lies forgotten in some corner. I see him in every passing old man or young vicar. I wonder if he is amused by what his spies tell him of me. Twice I have gone out only to find myself on Baker Street, on the very threshold of our old apartments with my hand poised for a knock, and twice I have forced myself to turn away. I do not know what I would say if he were to admit me. I am afraid that I might give in to his offer.

Such is the conflict within my mind that I have been increasingly short in temper, and I am afraid that dear Mary has born the brunt of my agitation. She is an angel, a rare gem of a woman, and yet even her eternal patience begins to wear thin. She knows that I am hiding something and despairs that I will not tell her. I know that if I could only give voice to my frustrations, it might go some ways to mend this rift that is forming, but Holmes' warning rings in my ears every time I consider it.

Could it be that this was his goal all along? To force his way so far into my mind that there left no room for my Mary? He has toyed with emotions before, exploited them for his own gains much to my horror, and he knows me well enough that he should see this mental turmoil as the inevitable conclusion.

A more amiable part of me - abused and diminished though it is - has considered that he might be doing this in pursuit of a case. Always before when we overstepped the law, it was in the interest of furthering justice, as it was when he manipulated someone's feelings... mine especially. I remember with painful clarity the case of Culverton Smith: Holmes' deathly pallor, his weak cough, my own feelings of panic and utter helplessness when he refused to let me near.

That is one of his greatest flaws, the tendency to withhold to the very end so that he might reveal all at the climax and hold his audience rapt, with no regard for the nerves of those around him. If this was his plan, there would surely be no sign of it. And yet, and yet... Things have gone on for too long and too far, without any reason I can see. I often am unable to fathom his motives, but this case makes my disability all the more frustrating.

Many times he has said to me, "You know my methods, Watson, apply them." And I have. I have put to use every last trick of observation and deduction that I have learned from Holmes, gone as far as I could go with the information that I have.

It is not enough. My sources have run dry and I am presented with only a bare handful of options. None of them appeal. I cannot in good faith take to Holmes' side, no matter how sweetly the temptation might whisper to me. Nor can I go to the police, for Mary's sake and for Holmes'. I cannot stand aside and let matters be, but how can I do anything, when he dogs my every step?

I am at a standstill, and I fear that it shall drive me to something rash.


	5. Part I Ch 5: Final Entry

**June 2, 1889**

I know now what I must do. I only pray God grants me the strength to see it through.

**END PART ONE.**


	6. Part II Ch 6: The Letter

**PART TWO: The Stages of Grief

* * *

**

Unlike the good Doctor Watson, I am not a man of romantic words and entertaining turns of phrase, preferring instead to turn my faculties to the doing and discerning of deeds than to the describing of them, and then only in the strictest of scientific and rational terms. In light of the circumstances, however, I must admit that this account would not be complete without my input. The nature of the affair is such that it would be better heard from his pen, as his prose, though florid and ostentatious as I have often (rightly) accused it of being, would be much better suited to this situation of not inconsiderable sentiment. Sentiment is his realm, not mine. I only hope that I may do some justice to it in my own way. It is the least that I can do to record the events that he put into place with a stroke of such genius as he so rarely displays yet is so clearly in possession of.

Let me say straight off that I had no idea what measures Watson would go to. Eight years of close cohabitation and companionship, and still he managed to surprise me. And to invade my thoughts, it seems, for here I am already falling into his unfortunate habit of telling a story the wrong way around.

It would be a great injustice indeed if I were to say I was sorry at the unrest of the Watson household. Although one who has read Watson's published accounts of my adventures might think otherwise, I had not sought to arrange it that way - my only goal at the time was to get Watson to either return to my side or to keep out of danger. Selfish pursuits, and I do not deny that, but not actively disruptive.

My Watson was despondent and anxious, his wife patient without but - as is the way with women - coming to the end of her line beneath. Though newly wed, they rarely saw each other, and when they did, their words quickly turned acerbic. Even their page-boy seemed to have fallen into bad luck, stopped on an errand by a constable who questioned him for several minutes. All this and more was communicated to me by my growing network of associates and by periodic personal forays into the gossip of his new neighborhood.

On one of these little jaunts, disguised as a humble old accountant on a lunch-break, I chanced to find his sitting-room curtains drawn and both he and his wife within. They were clearly at odds, Mrs. Watson's face pinched in a most unpleasant manner and Watson steeled but pale and drawn.

Of course I could not hear them, nor was I quite close enough to practice my lip-reading. It was still quite evident from where I stood that they were passing unhappy words. Watson was not a man of any notable temper, even when greatly put-upon - the last few meetings we'd held were quite extraordinary and should not be counted toward his normal character - and was not prone to raise his voice much less his fists. Today, however, I saw him start forward with a tightness to his jaw and a tremble to his clenched hands, and I shared Mrs. Watson's expectation that he had come to blows. He even upraised his arm for it, then made a grand gesture instead and spun his back to her. She slipped from the room quite pale and shaking, and not a minute later swept out the front door with her cloak and bonnet.

Watson had remained standing, but when the front door shut he sank into the settee with his head in his hands. He stayed that way for several long seconds, until finally he rose again and strode to the side-board. A snifter was filled with the lucent amber of brandy and downed just as quickly, then a generous second dram poured.

It was only then that he seemed to notice the yawning curtains and drew them swiftly shut, cutting off my view.

I returned to Baker Street more troubled than I care to admit. As unhappy as I was about Watson's selfish abandonment in favor of a wife, I did not like to see him so distraught. In a way his leaving had actually helped me; were it not for that, I would never have ventured down this exciting new path.

I resolved to arrange another meeting and do my best to soothe him. He has said that I have some instinctive talent for it when the need arises; perhaps I could put it to work for his benefit. As my previous methods seemed to cause him agitation, I decided that directness would be better. To that effect a dinner invitation was penned and handed to the page in exchange for the evening post.

My mind was quite occupied with the problem of soothing Watson's nerves without conceding my most enjoyable new hobby - as I knew that he would request - but I have more than enough mental capacity to observe while I think. The letters were flipped through as I made my way to the mantel, most (if not all) bound for transfixion beneath my jack-knife to wait for a later date. One caught my eye for a moment for its royal blue ink and the most notable name upon its face, but as I had myself arranged the disappearance of the Lady's prize poodle, it merited no more than a chuckle. The one directly beneath it, on the other hand, was undecorated, so unassuming as to demand investigation.

With a pipe of mild shag and a glass of brandy I settled into my worn armchair and set to reading this plain letter.

A minute later, pale and trembling, I raced out of the apartments and towards the home that I had just recently stood watching. The letter, so modest in its face, lay clutched in my hand.

_My dear Holmes, _it read,_ I cannot express how sorry I am that it has come to this._

_I have turned the matter over again and again, in struggle to find a hidden facet that would shed a new light on this singular path laid out before me. Instead, with each turn my options grew scarcer, until at last only this one stands before me that makes any sense at all. You, my logical and sensible friend, would surely agree._

_My remaining can only bring harm to those few that I hold dear. Not only Mary, Holmes, but yourself, whether or not you believe it. I am not as strong a man as I could be, for if I was I might be able to stand aside and let matters rest. I might be able to decide between my intimate friend and my wife, between our friendship and my love for England, and to extend my protection to one or the other with every confidence. But it is with me that the danger lies, and with every passing hour I grow weaker to it. I cannot allow my weakness to bring harm down upon you._

_You have demonstrated that you are more than capable without me, and I know that Mary is a strong woman, and will recover. May you both find happiness in this world, wherever it may see fit to be found. Know that my years with you have been some of my fondest memories, and if indeed the soul does live on, then they shall remain so forevermore._

_I know that you find my writing distasteful, so I shall draw it now to a close. This is my final goodbye, my friend. Your secret dies with me._

_With all the love and affection in my heart,_

_John Hamish Watson_


	7. Part II Ch 7: The Suicide of Dr Watson

When under duress, the body has a peculiar set of reserves that it draws energy from, allowing a man to extend his abilities to feats he never would have been capable of under normal circumstances. Numerous times I have come across this phenomenon in my career investigating the bizarre and grotesque, and a few times I had even experienced excitement of the chase or fear for my life overcoming fatigue, exhaustion, blood loss and worse. These were pale shadows of the energy that spurred me now.

I passed down a side-street, flew over a fence and across a private yard, and breezed straight through a busy thoroughfare without a second thought. There was no room in my mind for such things, only for a flipshow of nightmarish images from so many crimes - hangings, shootings, drownings, poisons, knifings; I had seen them all - with Watson's person superimposed into the victim, and for a single mantra repeated into madness: _I cannot be too late. Please, do not let me be too late._

With speed born of desperation and my singular knowledge of London's streets, I was on the scene in half the time it would have taken a hansom. An ambulance carriage - wide in the back and painted funereal black - passed me as my feet met Kensington pavement and pulled up before my friend's home. A uniformed constable stood outside the open door and urged curious onlookers away. He was not prepared for a frontal assault; I was well past by the time he thought to stop me.

"Watson!" I cried the moment I was inside. I was drawn instantly to the last place I had seen him: the sitting room.

The door was wide open, and within I found Mrs. Watson sobbing on the settee while a pair of policemen hovered uncomfortably over her. One I recognized as inspector Bradstreet, the other a uniformed officer by the name of Wilson who was badly in need of new shoes and otherwise utterly unworth the time it would take to describe him.

The woman's expression contorted into anger as she took notice of me. She sprang to her feet and advanced. "You! You have some nerve, Mr. Holmes! The audacity to enter my home - how dare you show your _face_ here after what you've done! I hope you're pleased with what you've accomplished! All your ceaseless cases, your hounding him day and night, your-" Her last reserves of gentility crumbled, her voice rising to an hysterical shriek as she began to beat against my chest. "You've driven him to this! Get out of my house! It's your fault! Your fault! Get out!" It was lucky that she was not of any notable strength, for I was far too shocked to even think to defend myself.

Wilson pulled her off with some trouble. She struggled a moment, then collapsed against him, her tirade giving over to unintelligible sobs into the officer's coat.

Seeing as Bradstreet was not occupied by an armful of weeping woman, I accosted him. "Where is Watson? What's happened?" It took all my self-control to keep the tremor from my voice.

He looked between me and Mrs. Watson. "I... I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to leave, Mr. Holmes."

"I will do no such thing."

"Mr. Holmes, the lady - I really must insist - Mr. Holmes!"

The sounds of movement from the hall behind me had called my attention. Sure enough, an old paramedic appeared past the doorway. A sheet had been draped over the inert form on his stretcher, but there was no mistaking the rise of a nose. More disturbing, the white expanse was broken by a bright vermillion stain, right over the temple.

I rushed into the hall, transfixed by the vision of that stained sheet. A weight on my chest halted me.

Inspector Lestrade's small form, aptly described as 'sallow' and 'rat-faced' in Watson's publications, stood between me and the rapidly retreating stretcher, his hand supplying the hindering weight. It was with some measure of willpower that I did not merely shove him out of the way and continue on my path.

"Step aside, Lestrade," I snapped.

To my surprise, he acquiesced, but not before taking my arm so that I would not flee after the body. "Let it alone, Holmes," said he, "there's nothing to be done and you'll just upset the lady more if you insist on disturbing the body."

" 'Disturbing the body!' "

"Lower your voice."

"I will not! You will let me see him, Inspector, it is my right!"

"You don't want to see him like this. Hardly recognizable anyway. The gun was too far forward, did quite a work of his face while it went."

My knees quite suddenly stopped responding. Lestrade had lead me out of the house onto the dainty lawn, and it was brickwork that I collapsed back against. All my careful self-control was but a fleeting memory.

"W...Watson...?"

"Yes, Holmes. I'm sorry."

My hands were shaking; I pressed them together to try and make them stop and realized that I still had his letter clenched in one. "I must..." Something. I had to do something. I had to- "I must see the room... where it happened, before your men-"

"No, Holmes," Lestrade said gently. "There is no crime here. No need for your tricks. I can tell you right now how it happened."

"How, then?"

"He and Mrs. Watson had a fight earlier today that lead to her leaving. Shortly thereafter he dispatched the housekeeper on an errand, and then according to the page retreated to his study. Not long after the boy heard a shot, ran up, and found Dr. Watson - well... - and then ran for the police. The window was locked from the inside, the gun in his hand, and not one sign of another person. It can't have been anything but a... a suicide."

"Yes, but the why!" I cried. "What about the motivation? You've forgotten the most important part!"

He shook his head. "Everyone in the household confirms that he's been withdrawn and angry the past few weeks. I can't say what brought it on, but he was certainly in the right state of mind for... this sort of thing. Perhaps the note he wrote his wife sheds some light on his motive."

I stuffed my own letter into my trouser pocket as the Inspector turned, and together we watched them load the stretcher into the Maria. I could not help but measure the height and width of the body, note the length of the feet, to observe and catalogue all these details considered so trivial and despair because they all corresponded to Watson, my Watson, and so did the vivid red flower by the temple.

"There's no chance...?" I let the question trail off, but Lestrade knew well enough what I meant. He shook his head gravely and patted my shoulder.

"Go home, Holmes. There's nothing you can do here. We'll contact you if anything comes up."


	8. Part II Ch 8: Denial

I returned home to Baker Street by hansom. The insufferable landlady was in the kitchen, but stuck her head out at hearing the door.

"Oh, Mr. Holmes, I was just making lunch - oh dear, you're all pale. What's the matter, then?"

I passed her straight by and locked the sitting-room door on my way, before sinking into my armchair. Its empty brother across the hearth leered at me as it had many times since Watson had moved out, but this time there was a ghastly chill to the worn upholstery that the crackling fire could do nothing for. Not only was it empty, but it would never be filled again. Not by the one who was meant to be there.

I could see him, so clearly now, even without the hallucinatory help of the cocaine. Slouched back in a manner of utmost comfort, head tipped back against the headrest, eyes closed, injured leg stretched out with one hand absently massaging his thigh. He opened his eyes and smiled when he saw my face, such a sincere smile.

"You need a case, old boy."

Some part of my mind, which should have been a majority considering my penchant for rationality, knew and accepted that this was nothing more than a vision. A memory brought to life by wishful thinking and denial, which I had suffered since the very night he moved out, which I had tried in vain to smother by diving into the criminal world. The rest of me ached with such longing that I didn't care. I was willing to take what little would be given me, ghostly visions or otherwise.

"No, Watson," I whispered without taking my eyes off him. "I need you."

I do not know how long I sat simply staring at that chair, reliving past conversations in silence, regretting every moment that I did not tell him how much he had come to mean to me. Certainly the sun had descended quite low in the London skyline before there came a timid knock at the door.

"Mr. Holmes?" Mrs. Hudson's choked voice broke through my reverie. "I just heard about... about the doctor. I'm so very sorry, sir."

I did not answer. She heaved a deep sigh.

"If you need anything - anything at all - just ring."

Her footsteps receded down the stairs.

The vision had faded. I was faced with nothing more than a cold and empty armchair. Watson was dead. Even our landlady knew it now. My. Not our. Had not been 'our' in some months. By the devil, I had not even come to terms with his moving out! I buried my head in my hands, feeling more helpless than I ever thought possible. Immediately to mind came the image of Watson that morning, in this same pose, and in that instant I understood exactly what had been going through his head. Such despair, such vulnerability, such...

Such a need to regain control.

Such a petulant desire to turn the tables. To hurt someone else as badly as my heart hurt, make them understand my pain.

I sprang to my feet and swept the desktop clear, smoothing Watson's letter open atop it. The hand was clean and unhurried, suffering only from some mild agitation. For a person so inherently given to bald _bonhomie_ to lie, especially to the emotional distress of a close friend, would cause such agitation.

And Lestrade, though I had been too distraught at the time to deduce anything from my observations, had been unusually crisp in manner when he'd first approached me. Once it looked like I was genuinely taken in, he'd relaxed into gentle sympathy.

Mrs. Watson's response had been a bit overdramatic, but she had never struck me as an actress and her anguish had certainly been justified. No, she could not have been in on it, her emotional display was far too impassioned to be convincingly falsified. Bradstreet had been uneasy, but that could be put down to finding himself torn between my wishes and the wife's - I would not count him out of the scheme just yet. Wilson was typical of the constabulary, which meant he was too dull for any such dissimulation to be anything short of obvious. The paramedics would have to be in the know - unless, of course, Watson had got his hands on one of those elusive and wonderful near-death drugs that we'd encountered on the Causley case.

And his face _had_ been covered, with a flimsy excuse about the shot damaging it.

The gun had remained in his hand. Suicides - less rare than one would wish in this business - often lost their grip after pulling the trigger, and the recoil force would send the gun elsewhere.

Laid out before me, with a professional level of detachment and a critical eye, it was all suddenly made blissfully clear. A few pieces were still missing - like how he had arranged it all without alerting my suspicions - but there could be no other answer. Watson could not possibly be dead. All of this was just an elaborate ruse to turn me from the new hobby that he so frowned upon. And a masterful elaboration it was!

A sigh of relief found its way from my chest, then became a chuckle and then a full-fledged paroxysm of delight. "Good show, old boy!" I cried. "Good show!"

The key to this whole affair would of course be the body. I had no doubt that it was Watson himself lying still (perhaps even self-medicated into unconsciousness or paralysis) beneath that sheet, but he could not carry such a ruse on indefinitely. There would have to be a body to display, to bury. He had to know it would be too suspicious if the body simply disappeared or was stolen, but there was still a possibility he would go that route.

I was confident, however, that he would make no further moves tonight. Pleased that I had caught onto his game, I lit up a pipe, stirred new life into the coals, and rang for dinner.


	9. Part II Ch 9: The Body

I began my morning by sending off a telegram inquiring after the paramedics who'd answered the call to 483 Kensington Road*, along with a couple of letters to catalyst my latest criminal feat. Just because Watson had so expertly bluffed did not mean I was folding my hand just yet. Mrs. Hudson was quite scandalized by my good cheer, but was far too polite to make any mention of it, only pursed her lips and left me to my breakfast. I caught sight of her glancing back from the door and shaking her head sadly - I imagine she thought me in the throes of denial, that documented first stage of grief. Let her think what she would.

If, indeed, they were hiding the lack of body from me, then it was imprudent to think I could gain entry in my own capacity. Thus, the day found me in the form of a young vicar, as I paid a visit to the mortuary that I had no doubt Watson's body would have been conveyed to.

I informed the clerk, a dark-eyed youth of some twenty years at most, that I was there to bless the body of Dr. John Watson before autopsy, according to the wishes of the family. To my surprise, I was rebuffed immediately.

"I'm sorry, Father," said the boy, his tone indicating boredom more than sympathy. "But no one's allowed in there unless they're accompanied by Mrs. Watson or an inspector of the Yard."

An inspector of the Yard? Now there was a queer stipulation if I had ever heard one! I managed to keep my expression one of mere puzzlement, but I was more than delighted by this development. "Well, that's odd. I shall have to come back with an escort. I wasn't aware this doctor was such an important man, to require such safeguards."

"Yeah, right strange, isn't it? I wouldn't bother the lady, if I were you, she put on a good face but you could tell she was barely hanging together. You'll need to inquire of Inspector Lestrade if you want in - he's a little chap, but he's hard to miss."

"Right then. Is that where you keep the bodies, down there?"

"Yeah, right down there."

"I've never been into a mortuary, personally - I couldn't just take a look, could I?"

"Sorry, sir."

I thanked the boy and left, circling around to pass through the alley on my way back while I mused on this information. It revealed nothing new, but did solidify as fact that Lestrade was somehow a part of the deal. I was certain that I had warned Watson of the consequences of turning to the Yard, too... but I would hold off following through until I had proof of my suspicions. No sense in going off with only half the facts and losing one of the few members of the constabulary that I could stand, though a hostage would be a grand way to draw him out of hiding and extract the last details of the story. As for the body, I would have to stall my investigation until I could get an answer from the paramedics.

It was not until supper that I received a telegram from the hospital, with an apology for the lateness of their reply. They informed me that of the two paramedics summoned to the scene, one had been on his last call and retired to Somerset this day, the other had been married and was leaving for a honeymoon on the Continent, no doubt completely smitten with his blushing bride. An aggravatingly convenient development, but - as I refuse to believe in such a thing as coincidence - certain proof that Watson was a finer opponent than he ever gave himself credit for. At least, when things more valuable then his military pension were on the line. I supposed it was only fair that he have learned a few things in my company. Unfortunately, while he knew me, I also knew him, and that would be his downfall in this wild gamble.

With the paramedic thread gone, I was left to pursue the body itself.

Night fell, and I slipped out the back window to avoid disturbing the landlady, dressed in an engineer's garb with equipment well-hidden beneath an ulster and a mask to slip over my face once I'd arrived. The lock at the mortuary's back door fell quickly to a pick in my skilled hands, and I was inside, rubber-soled shoes silent on the new flooring. At the end of the hall lay the door to the upstairs and the lobby that I had stood in earlier. If my judgment on the building was correct, that would put another door somewhere to my right - and my judgment was impeccable, as there it was, illuminated nicely by the light of my dark-lantern.

The room beyond was long and cold, like the great freezers in the meat-packing plants on the river, and almost certainly for the same reasons. A row of tables ran down the center, clean surfaces of hospital-white, and three down near the end bore the rise of white sheets. The only indication of what was beneath them was a pair of feet sticking out from the end of each; bare feet, with a tag wrapped around the right big toe. Attached beneath the heads was a thick wire with a bell on the end.**

I passed by the first pair of feet, which were not only small but quite tanned, and glanced at the tag on the next set. 'GARNER, A.', it informed me. The next had the dubious honor of being labeled 'THREEPWOOD, G." Still unsatisfied, I turned down the sheets - mindful of the bells - enough to see that Garner was a grizzled and ruddy-faced septuagenarian, and Threepwood was a handsome ponytailed brunette barely of age to be familiar with a razor.

No Watson, then. I was elated for all of a moment before sobering myself with the thought that a total lack of a body could be put to a lot of things. None of them made for a particularly good excuse should I confront the good Inspector Lestrade with this, even if I could produce a satisfactory explanation for why I knew, but it was still not enough information to go on. I hated to leave a job half-done.

If a body had come in at all, there would be records of it. With this thought in mind, I made my way to the lobby and found the records secured within the front desk. A brief glance through them and my heart fell. The body of WATSON, J was registered as having been moved this very morning after my visit, though the destination was conspicuous in its absence.

Well. That was certainly not ideal. It did indicate some intriguing alertness on the part of my opponents, though.

Returning the records and the drawer to their original condition, I proceeded to slip out of the mortuary, and was just re-catching the lock when I heard a shout.

"Oi, there! You! What's your business?" Clearly silhouetted in the mouth of the alley was a patrolman. I proceeded to take my leave in the other direction. He was young and persistent, and it took the scaling of not only a fence but the side of a building before I heard his footsteps recede from me, but I returned to my apartment that night quite unscathed and with no chance of having been recognized.

It was little consolation for that my investigation was turning up dry. Though undeniably tired from my run, I could not sleep with such uncertainty on my mind, and instead spent the night in contemplation amidst clouds of my strongest shag and the aimless bowing of my prized Stradivarius.

By the time the decent folk were waking, I had come to a small series of conclusions. Firstly, that Watson was a respectable sort, as was his wife, and that said, would hold a proper viewing at most four days after his death. That left him little more than two days in which to make off with the body, as I was now certain he would attempt. Secondly, that he was much more prepared than I would originally have thought, and if anything was to follow this ruse then I would have to see just how far that preparation had gone. And thirdly, that it would not be at all out of character for me to want to see Watson's body.

It was time for the straightforward approach.

The offices of Scotland Yard were busy as they ever pretended to be when anyone was looking, but all of them had the time to glance at me when I stormed in. I have been told that I have a very brusque manner when it comes to entryways and a tendency to slam doors behind me, but as all but the greenest of their ranks had dealt with several years of this, I considered it no excuse to stop and stare. Especially given that a new heist had taken place last night and they should all have their hands full with that Gutenburg Bible, if not one of the many other cases I'd sent their way these past few months.

Lestrade had already risen to his feet by the time I marched into his office and took his visitors' chair without preamble.

"Where is Dr. Watson's body?" I asked, leaning back into my best impression of calm menace.

"Holmes, good morning, why don't you have a seat," he muttered as he dropped back into his own. His tone was sarcastic and he wore the vexed expression of the long-suffering expert - one that I was quite familiar with and usually delighted in turning to awe or indignation - but I fancied that I'd seen a flash of fear pass his eyes at my question. "Cup of tea?"

"I asked you a direct question, Inspector, and I should like an answer."

Lestrade sighed. "He's been moved to the station morgue." I waited until he deigned to answer the obvious question. "Dr. Watson is well known to be associated with both you and the Yard. You can thank that tale of his for that, that 'Study in Red'-"

"Scarlet."

"Right. Whatever it was called." I found myself frowning at his off-handed treatment of Watson's writing. "In any case, it puts him - his body, that is - under high risk of some criminal trying to get at it to make a point. You remember the case two years back, when Constable Mackey's body disappeared?"

Dear lord, did I. The brother of a man Mackey had sent to the gallows had stolen his body, turned around, and sold it to a decrepit lunatic to use as ingredients for witchcraft. We had only recovered half of it, barely recognizable. The rest had disappeared for eternity into a bubbling cauldron, including his eyes, fingernails, most of his teeth, his heart and liver, half his ribs, the hamstring from his right leg, and his entire left leg. Some of my horror at the idea of Watson's body getting the same treatment must have shown through, for Lestrade nodded gravely.

"We only just moved him in time. There was a break-in just last night - very professional. Hardly anything disturbed. We wouldn't have even known he was there but that a patrolman spotted him on his way out."

This, naturally, I only reacted to very little, as was expected of the unshakable Sherlock Holmes. "Well, it's lucky that you acted so quickly, inspector. Now, may I see the body?"

He expelled a sharp breath through his nose and shook his head. "I thought you'd ask that. The answer is no."

Anger flared in my breast, begging me to more action than I could take. I leaned forward, fixing him with a stare calculated for maximum discomfort. My voice I kept smooth and even, but with an icy bite. "I beg your pardon?"

"Shall I list the reasons?" He did his best not to look at me and instead waved at the great mound of paperwork on his desk. "I am busy. I do not have time to be giving morgue tours. No one in this department does. You may not have heard, but we've been rather overworked as of late with these mysterious thefts on top of all the usual crime. I'm sorry for your loss, Mr. Holmes, but you can sodding well see the body when it's returned home for viewing, and until then, perhaps your time would be better spent helping us take care of this caseload."

I rose. "I'm quite busy these days, myself, Inspector. Good day."

I left the station with a stoic face, while within I was absolutely livid. How _dare_ he deny me access to my Watson! I was sorely tempted to put out a hit on him right then and there - I could escalate to murder, I had certainly been given enough incentive to do so! Just send off a telegram, and I could have a man there in half an hour, to wait in a cab across the street until Lestrade stepped out; take Watson's partner out of the game here and now and cut this whole ridiculous charade off at the neck!

The farther I walked from the station, the more I returned to my senses, and realized how little that idea really appealed. Aside from the initial shock, and the annoyingly sudden and persistent emotional reactions that kept cropping up, this was the most challenged I felt I had been in months - years, even. Besides, I rather liked Lestrade, however I might disparage him from time to time. Gregson on his own could hardly do to keep the Yard intriguing. No, Lestrade would live to see another day - he was just playing along, after all. And using my new crime spree as a cover was certainly a respectable move.

I sent a messenger on ahead of me, so that when I returned to Baker Street there was already an assembly of scruffy young boys on the door step. Morsley, the new representative since Wiggins had hit manhood and found himself some more lucrative work, wormed his way to the front of them and saluted me.

"Wot've y'got this time, guv?"

Averse to the idea of discussing this delicate matter in broad daylight, I instead lead him up to the sitting room. Mrs. Hudson had left tea; Morsley pocketed a biscuit when he thought I wasn't looking. "Nothing strenuous this time around, but a bit dangerous, so it's the standard rate plus five. I need a few eyes on the police station."

"Th' police, sir?"

"Round the clock for the next two days. Specifically, I need to know if anyone breaks in, if anyone comes out bearing a body, and if there is anyone of any suspicious character frequenting the place. If any of these things are noticed, they are to be brought to me at once. Understood?"

"Aye, sir!"

I handed him the pay for the whole group and watched him scamper off, crumbs on his fingers and the biscuit plate quite a bit lighter than it had been upon our entering. I had no appetite anyway, not with this business still unsettled.

I sought comfort and clarity again in the embrace of my violin. With eyes closed I coaxed notes from the warm wood, unfettered sounds leading one into the other at the behest of fingers that moved instinctively, gently imposing order upon the chaos of my thoughts.

If the body was indeed in the police station and set for a mysterious disappearance, I had them caught. If it wasn't there, then it would be no great loss to my investigation - I would still know for certain what I needed to know. There was, however, always the possibility of another option. Seeing as Watson could not be dead in order to supply the body, and if there was no disappearance, then there would have to be a switch. There had been the excuse of the destroyed face, possibly they - Watson and Lestrade, and whomever else might be helping him - would contrive to make the viewing closed-casket despite the impropriety of such a thing. I would have them there as well.

There was one other option, of course, but it seemed almost too absurd to consider. It was possible that they would bring in another body and make it up so as to appear to be Watson. I dismissed this notion almost immediately - I knew my Watson far too well for any such ruse to hold up. He had to know that.

For the moment, my options had run dry. My turn was done, and I would have to wait for their move before I could make mine.

As I came to that decision, I also became aware that my playing had drifted into _Lieder_.

* * *

_*So far as I am aware, this address does not actually exist. At the time, neither did 221b Baker Street, so I shan't apologize._

_**Finding information on victorian-era mortuaries and death services is harder than you'd think. As far as I can tell, mortuaries were around but fairly new, made use of toe-tags, and since there wasn't a reliable way of telling if someone was dead, they would attach bells to the bodies and keep them around for awhile in case they started moving again. Contrary to popular belief, this is not the origin of the phrase 'saved by the bell'._

_Spot the geeky reference for ten points._


	10. Part II Ch 10: The Viewing

Watson's death had been on Monday. I had gone to see Lestrade on Wednesday. The viewing was to be held Friday.

I spent all of Thursday pacing the sitting room amidst clouds of tobacco smoke, all nervous energy with no outlet.

Neither my sorry casework nor the planning of another heist proved sufficient to distract my already preoccupied mind, no matter how hard I tried to concentrate on them. At every little sound I was up out of my chair again, hoping for the Irregulars with some news or - irrationally - Watson himself. Twice it was Mrs. Hudson bearing one meal or another, until I demanded that she leave tea and otherwise leave me completely to my own devices. Once it was the page with the post, which bore nothing of interest. Most of the time it was nothing, and that troubled me more than anything else. No news was not good news, in this case.

Eventually I sank into an armchair, realizing only belatedly that it was Watson's and not my own, though I have no idea how I made such a mistake. The differences between the two were... well, as plentiful as the differences between myself and the good doctor. Practically it was not as deep as mine, and thus better for his shorter and damaged legs, and the cushioning was a little bit thicker. It was also positively soaked with his scent, his cigarettes and his aftershave and _him_. I closed my eyes and breathed deeply of it. Wrapped about in that comfort, I was almost able to pretend that he was still where he belonged.

The sound of banging at the front door jerked me awake. The hearth had long gone cold. Wan light peered through cracks in the drawn curtains, carriages and horseshoes clattered in the street below, and a glance at the clock told me that it was well past seven. I must have fallen asleep, the comfort of Watson's old chair quieting my mind enough for the strain of the last few days to catch up.

Mrs. Hudson answered the door while I quickly made myself presentable, not for the sake of my visitor so much as that I hate the feel of day-old stubble and unwashed clothing. Small feet in too-large shoes pounded up the stairs and burst into the sitting room just as I was stepping out of my bedroom, feeling much refreshed.

"Mister Holmes, Mister Holmes!" cried the boy, who attempted to continue without catching his breath, although it was clear he'd run quite some distance to get here. "Somebody - there was - at th' - a lady - an' you-"

"Stop and catch your breath, lad, please, I can't understand a word you're saying."

He - and I could not for the life of me remember if I had ever even heard his name, much less recall what it was - rested his hands on his knees and took in several deep gulps of air. "Sorry, sir," he said once he was breathing evenly. "S'I was sayin', we was watchin' the police like you said, and this lady come up to the station - I didn't pay her no mind at first, sir, 'ceptin' that she was dressed all in mournin' blacks, but then she came back out in front of a coffin, wi' a half-dozen constables carryin' it f'her. They loaded it up in a Maria an' drove off, but I hopped up on th' back an' followed 'em!" He looked quite pleased with himself.

"Very good. Where did they go?"

"Not much far from 'ere - just to Kensington, where they took it up into a house. I've got the address for y', sir."

"The woman, was she by any chance blond, medium height, and uncommon in the face?"

"Hard to tell under the mourning veil, sir, but blond and medium size fit right well."

"And they didn't stop anywhere on the way?"

"No, sir. D'ye want the-"

"No, that's alright. I know where it's gone. Thank you." I flipped another shilling over to him. His expression, which had been steadily falling in face of my questioning, lit up immediately. I gestured him towards the door. "Feel free to trouble Mrs. Hudson for a biscuit on your way out." He scampered down the stairs quick as a whip, leaving me to close the sitting room door.

Nothing. Absolutely nothing. Mrs. Watson had come to collect the body for viewing and it had been taken straight home. There had been no disappearance. That left only one option that my troubled mind dare contemplate; a switch had to have been made. I would have to see it for myself.

Friday morning had dawned cold and foggy, and seemed quite comfortable to remain so for the rest of the day. This was not at all an odd occurrence in London even in as balmy a July as we had been having, and as I could still clearly see the yellow brickwork of Camden House across the street, it was hardly a hindering factor. Then again, so long as I could see as far as my own feet, no amount of fog would have stopped me. I remembered the way to Kensington Road by methods other than sight.

The Maria was well gone from the front of the house, but there was evidence of it having been there. I had not doubted there would be. The housekeeper answered the door at my second knock, looking quite a bit flustered and not much happier when she recognized my face.

"I'm here for the viewing," I told her bluntly. She called for Mrs. Watson, who appeared a moment later. Her figure and expression were both composed within their mournful trappings, but her face was drawn and her eyes still bore signs of recent crying. I repeated my statement to her, but this time letting a tremor slip in, a subtle hint at the grief that I was supposed to be feeling. It was easier to fake than I should have liked.

She pursed her lips, and for a long moment I was sure she would turn me away. She certainly had ample reason to. I had never been particularly cordial when it came to her (she had, after all, stolen my Watson away), she had been given reason to believe I was to blame for Watson's death, and officially the viewing did not begin until ten anyway. Instead, she let out a delicate breath.

"I will not ask how you know he's here," she said, and to my surprise held out a hand to me. "He's in the sitting room."

I hesitated before taking the offered hand. With that as lead, she took me down to the hall into the sitting room. Set up at chest-height on spindly legs was a coffin of warm but cheap panel-wood. The lid was conspicuously closed. Several arrangements of flowers flanked it and filled the air with their delicate fragrance.

"I owe you an apology, Mr. Holmes."

I had already nearly forgotten Mrs. Watson's presence, having released her to move toward the coffin. She stood at the door with her hands folded before her, gaze respectfully or sheepishly turned towards the floor. "I acted rashly the last time I saw you," she said. Sheepishly it was. "I should not have accused you so - this is hardly your fault. I know that you loved him as much as I did." She sniffed. I was quite afraid that she might begin crying again. Fortunately, she composed herself. "Anyway, I apologize for my behavior. I am sorry."

There was a lump in my throat when I tried to speak. I had to swallow it before I could manage. "There is nothing to apologize for, Mrs. Watson. You had every reason to be emotional." My lips twisted into what I hoped was a sympathetic smile. She seemed to take it as such, for she gave me a small smile in return.

Her eyes flickered to the coffin and the smile fell away. "I'll... I'll leave you alone. If you would like tea..."

"That's alright."

She lingered for another long moment before taking her exit.

I was left alone in a dimly-lit room with a closed casket. The last piece of the puzzle that I had been trying to put together since Monday. I should have been confident and excited as with the usual conclusion of a case, but instead my gut twisted with uncertainty when I approached the coffin. The options were just too thin - either it was empty (unlikely), a substitute cadaver had been used, or...

The wood was smooth and chill against my fingertips. I steeled myself and raised the lid.

It was only by sheer force of will that I kept on my feet.

His eyes were closed, expression peaceful. Skin warm and flushed. Hair combed, cheeks smooth, mustache trimmed and neat. He almost could have been sleeping, were it not for the poorly-disguised disfigurement at the right temple that spread embossed fractures across his forehead like the tendrils of a spiderweb, terminating in a flat patch of make-up on the left temple to obscure where the bullet had exited. There was even the scar on the bridge of his nose from our impromptu staged brawl during the Hennsworth case, the small brown freckle under his chin, that hint of premature gray in the hair behind his ear.

A choked sound reached my ears. I was too far away to try and discern its origin, embraced and smothered in the sheer horror of the situation I was faced with. This was Watson. This _was_ Watson. This was _Watson_.

Realization did not dawn. It struck me like a freight train, heartless and unforgiving. The whole situation suddenly was written clearly before my eyes, and there was no deep mystery involved, no tangled threads to follow, no deceit, no games, no opponents, only Watson, my dearest Watson, lying dead and cold and still before me with a hole through his head, and I had driven him to it, I had _driven him to it_...

Somehow I found myself in a chair, shaking with a bone-deep chill that no fire could ever dispel, and realizing that the choked sound was coming from my own throat. I was sobbing, and my vision was blurry and my cheeks were wet and I tasted salt on my lips, and I couldn't have cared less. Let the help hear, let little miss Mary Morstan Watson hear, let the neighbors hear.

Let the whole world know that Sherlock Holmes did have a soul, and that it cried out loud at the passing of the one person that mattered.

It was a long hour before the sobs subsided, and by ten I felt empty and drained, but it passed off for composed, enough to accept an offer of tea and refuse the offer of breakfast. Somewhere between the soul-shattering grief and the cold desolation a timid theory had made itself known, born of the hope that still bloomed eternal even in my mind. Perhaps, it said, just perhaps, this was Watson playing dead again for the benefit of his friends and family, to make the illusion complete. It was a weak justification at best, but I clung to it with shameful desperation, hoping against hope that I was right and that the vigil I had resolved myself to might just reward me.

The official viewing time came around. People came and went; I sat in the chair I had fallen into and briefly observed all of them. A few I recognized - Watson's amiable neighbor Dr. Anstruther; the good man Stamford who had first introduced us; even several members of the Yard that we had worked with over the years, including the illustrious Lestrade and Gregson, who remained silent in each others' presence for once, and Bradstreet with sorrow written all over his face, and even constable Clarke in his uniform blue. Others I surmised to be Mrs. Watson's friends, an employer who remembered her fondly, and her old nursemaid. A few loitered for some time and made sympathetic chatter with the widow, others slipped in for just a moment and then were gone again. Apollo made his tracks across the heavens and slowly the last of them filtered out, until the sky beyond the windows was afire with sunset and I was the only one left in the deepening shadows of the sitting room.

I rose to my feet, jerky from more than lack of motion, and stepped over to the casket. Watson lay just as he had for the last twelve - thirteen? - hours. Cold seemed to seep into my fingers when I touched his cheek. I didn't care.

"I'm so sorry, Watson," I whispered with a ghost of a voice. Leaning down, I pressed a soft kiss to his forehead, and then left the house.

The numbness did not last. I had hardly crossed the threshold before another wave of horror and grief struck me out of nowhere, sending me stumbling right into a passing stranger. I mumbled an apology on the edge of a sob and lurched away.

Somehow my feet made it back to Baker Street without my mind to guide them; equally rote was the task of locking the sitting-room door and drawing the curtains. It was not for the bottle on the mantle that I reached this time, but rather for one in the desk, a bottle that I had secreted from Watson's stores some long time ago in a fit of hypocritical pique, when he had still been fragile from Afghanistan and turned too often to painkillers when he thought I would not notice or care.

With the ease of practice I crawled into a syringe of morphia, with no plan to ever crawl back out.


	11. Part II Ch 11: The Plan

"I specifically asked for _Lestrade_."

Inspector Bradstreet shifted uncomfortably. "Well, sir, he's been very busy as of late, he said he didn't have time..."

"Fine." I cut him off. "What about Gregson? I worked with him on that dreadful business with Foxhurst. It's not the Merripews, but it still has some bearing."

"He's busy, too, sir. It's this crime wave. We're overbooked, and Lestrade and Gregson are up to their ears."

Ah, irony, thou art a cruel mistress.

It had been some eleven days since the viewing of Watson's body, of which I had spent five in a state of self-imposed solitude. Four of those had muddled past in a haze of morphia-induced stupor. On the fifth I awoke in a cold sweat from an unremembered dream, realized with sharp clarity that I had missed his funeral, and was suddenly overtaken by such an anger as I could not hope to describe. In my rage I tore apart the sitting room and my adjoining bedroom. Irreplaceable papers turned to ash in the fireplace. Chemicals and glass scored the floor. To the settee I took one of the ornamental swords from the wall, and the iron poker I took to the writing desk, though only after flipping it onto its side. A full box of .38 was unloaded into our walls and furnishings, and one stray shot through the curtain, shattering the window pane. Through the whole fit I kept up a constant monologue of abuse and obscenity directed at anyone who happened to cross my mind. I blamed Watson for not coming to see me. I blamed Watson for having left at all. I blamed Mary Morstan for having stolen his heart. I blamed Major Sholto who had given her a case to bring to me. I blamed Stamford for introducing Watson and me in the first place.

Watson's armchair remained untouched throughout, and when all my wrath was spent I found myself curled up in it, silent tears coursing down my face. There, in the end, I blamed myself. _I_ had chased him away. _I_ had been the petulant child who could not stand to let him seek happiness without me. _I_ had continued my game despite the pain I knew it caused him. And _I _had been so absorbed in my own petty dramas that I had not seen their full effects until far too late.

On the sixth day I came to kneel by his grave. The tombstone was plain granite, bearing his name and title, his birth-day and death-day, and the absurdly simple epitaph of 'loving husband and friend'. The only decoration was a wilting spring bouquet in the vase atop it. It was modest and unostentatious, just as he was, and so much less than what he deserved, just as his whole life had been.

"My friend, I owe you a thousand apologies and more," I said to the fresh earth of the grave. "The truth is I could say I was sorry with every breath for the rest of my life and achieve only the cheapest portion of what I owe you... of what I feel. I don't say that because I'm looking to be forgiven, Watson. I know I don't deserve any such consideration. I wouldn't even think to ask of it. What I've done is unforgivable as anything could be. I begrudged you your happiness and hounded after you, until I drove you to this... this desperate end. Just that... I am not as unburdened by emotion as I put on, Watson. I already felt it keenly every time you were gone from my side, but I never... Dear God, Watson, I miss you. I miss you so, so terribly-" the word sputtered as my breath hitched and choked. The epitaph swam before my eyes, and I swiped at them, perturbed by my own lack of control and then ashamed that I should think of control at such a time.

I waited until my breathing had calmed again before I continued. "I know that you worried about me, even until the end, even when I least deserved it. I never did deserve you, Watson. You were always far too good for an irascible old fool like me. I don't know why you put up with it for as long as you did. Bless you for it." I was getting off-track and my voice was trembling again. I crawled up to sit beside the headstone and lean against it, as if I could draw strength from its cold surface. "But, Watson," I whispered, "you were wrong in the last stretch. I can't make it without you. I don't even know that I should. All I've done is cause pain and misery for all those around me, and at times I even delighted in it.

"I'm not worth saving, Watson, not in body or in soul. I never was." I felt tears roll down my cheeks and this time made no move to stop them. "But you tried anyway, didn't you? You tried so hard to save me. Any endeavor that you put so much of your energy towards could not be entirely frivolous. To say so would demean your good name, and you know I don't abide by that." I smiled only for a moment.

"Tell me how, Watson. I don't know how to do this on my own. Tell me how to make it right."

That was it. My confession was spent. I lay my head against the smooth granite and wondered in a far-off way what I was expecting - a ghostly apparition? A voice from the heavens? An earth-shattering epiphany? There was nothing of the sort. Just a cold headstone and a fresh grave and that gaping sense of emptiness that had become my constant companion.

I felt foolish for having tried such a desperate tactic. He was gone. He would not answer. I would have to make it up to him on my own.

But how? Merely returning to proper work would not cut it. I could return all of what I had stolen, restore the baker to his place on King Street, but even that seemed a paltry offering. What would Watson want from me?

He wanted me to help good people and stop the bad ones. That... yes. I could do that. I could use my new criminal contacts one last time and take down one of those true devils that the Yard could not catch up to, the ones that hid behind the scenes and manipulated, just as I had done.

I explained my plan to Watson's gravestone, said goodbye, and set off with a renewed sense of purpose.

By the ninth day I had found my man. It was no easy task to do so, and I had in that time managed to burn through an entire two pouches of tobacco, but by careful deployment of my people and determined scouring of the facts I had managed to track a profusion of incidents back to their source.

That source went by the name of Countellinus, a name unknown to the members of the Yard, or any other authorities on the Continent for that matter, except as a passing phantom that upper-class snitches might mention in hushed tones just before they disappeared. I myself had heard it only once before, in reference to the yet-unsolved disappearance and suspected murder of viscount Emerrit. Countellinus was a criminal mastermind, completely without sympathy, so subtle and cunning that he might as well be a malevolent spirit.

Count Reginilus Telos, on the other hand, was as clearly flesh and blood as any celebrity. Born French nobility, he had an inauspicious start in life when a scandal involving his father was made public, driving the elder Telos to his death and leaving his son with a ruined name and little more. The young Count had fled to the Americas for several years, then resurfaced in Italy with a healthy fortune from the gold mines. He established himself in Florence, and soon the name of Count Telos was back in the public's mind with nothing but praise for his good looks, shrewd business sense, and great good humor. His marriage to Lady Flarice Abbracciabene was covered in newspapers all across the Continent, as was her death not two years later. When he declared last year that he was turning his fortune towards the clearing of his father's name, support poured in from all sides.

According to my information, both the respectable Count Telos and the phantasmic Countellinus were one and the same. Though there was no record of his time in the Americas, I had strong suspicions that he had begun his criminal career there in order to amass his fortune and perfect his technique. Here he lead a double life, using his wealth, charisma, and intellect to build his empire upon any number of despicable crimes. Not only theft but murder, extortion, and blackmail were well within his purview, and even the grotesque possibility of a slave trade.

His position as a public figure would make his downfall all the worse, but at the same time lent him protection. With the death of his wife and his crusade for his father, public sympathy was firmly on his side. I could not seek to sully such a name without irrefutable evidence of his guilt, and for the moment he had covered his tracks well. He did not dip his hands personally in anything, but dictated the actions of a hierarchy of men, from the sophisticated con-man to the uneducated ruffian.

We had a lot in common, he and I.

Fortunately, I had traced a few leads back through my own cases, and had a pretty good start up that ladder. Now if only the fallout of my ill-conceived hobby would stop interfering with the process.

"I brought the files on the Merripew case, sir, if that will help."

I shook my head at the inspector that stood fidgeting in my sitting-room. "I need Lestrade's recollection, not the official reports." The case itself had not been overly remarkable, but there were a few matters in it that bothered me now and I could not follow them through the case file. "Hail a cab and we'll go back together. I promise I won't take up too much of his time."

Bradstreet seemed keen to protest, but thought better of it and left to do as I'd instructed. I fetched my hat and coat and followed. A hansom was waiting by the time I caught up. I climbed in, and promptly sank down and closed my eyes, preempting any attempts the inspector might have made at conversation.

A boy darted past us as the cab pulled up to the kerb, and as he disappeared into the station I briefly wondered why he was dressed as an urchin when he was clearly of fine, if working-class, breeding. Bradstreet preceded me to the door, holding it open for an old writer that leant too heavily over his cane. Down on his luck with once-fine, now threadbare clothes, gloves worn from weather but not menial work, eyes half-lidded and chapped lips parted around a groan of pain.

The old man moved past me with a limp to his step and for a moment my heart leapt, for a moment I admit I paused and searched his lined face, hoping to see blue eyes dart towards me with guilt or daring or amusement, or else pointedly not look my way. Instead he only stifled a yawn, murmured "G'day, guv'nor," in a rough and unfamiliar voice, and shambled away. The limp, I realized, was on the wrong side, and there was a general weakness throughout his whole form, from the shuffle of his feet to the slump of his shoulders.

I felt disgusted as I turned back towards my task, at myself more than anything. Watson was dead. I had seen the body. I had stood by his grave and wept. Was I really so desperate as to still grasp at such remote clues, scrabbling for even the slightest hint that my Watson was not in fact six feet beneath London soil?

With the celerity with which I have become accustomed, my mind returned the answer, simple and yet deeply troubling: _Yes_.

"Mr. Holmes?" Bradstreet called, voice edged with irritation. I broke out of my reverie and caught up.

* * *

_Count Telos/Countellinus is an unrelated character borrowed (with permission) from my friend Nergalitos, because I needed a villain and he's so terribly good at it._

_I'd like to take a moment to thank all of my unsigned reviewers. I make a point of responding to all of the signed reviews that I receive, but I want those of you who don't have accounts and still have taken the time to review to know that I truly do appreciate it._


	12. Part II Ch 12: The Merripew Case

Lestrade was on his feet looking at a file when I strode into his office, which he closed with as much force as one could impart to a file folder and dropped onto his desk. He did not seem surprised at my presence, but he was certainly perturbed. "Mr. Holmes, I'm really very busy. Scotland Yard does exist for reasons other than catering to-"

"Nevermind that, Lestrade, this is important. Do you remember the Merripew case, in March of '83?"

"I gave Bradstreet the file. What more do you need?"

I smiled in a way that I knew infuriated him and made myself comfortable in his visitor's chair. "Let no one ever compliment you on your hearing. I _need_ to know if you remember it. Please just answer the question, you are not suited to debate and it would only waste more of your precious time."

"You were more tolerable with the doctor around," he muttered as he took his seat. Thankfully he did not notice how I stiffened at this comment. "Fine. Yes, Holmes, I remember it."

"Good, then perhaps you also remember that you refused to divulge information on your informant."

"Of course I refused. If one describes their tippers they quickly lose them. He lead us to the murderer, didn't he?"

"Well, he lead you to Tipton Wheelock, at any rate. This same informant reappeared a year later in the Foxhurst case, did he not?"

"Yes, he did. Now, look, Mr. Holmes, I can't say I'm not pleased that you need my help for once, but is there a point in this line of questioning?"

"I would hardly pursue it without a goal, whether or not it's clear to you is not my concern. My problem is that I am no longer convinced we caught the right man." The inspector's eyes started to bug and his cheeks to redden, so I quickly added, "Don't worry, Wheelock deserved every bit of his fate. Just not for the death of Lester Merripew."

He still rose to his full, if not very considerable, height. "The evidence was firmly against him, Holmes! He was spotted fleeing from the scene, his feet match the size of the prints we found, not to mention he had the weapon and the motive! Do not tell me you plan on re-opening this case in the midst of-"

"Calm down, Inspector, please. I admit that at the time even I was suitably convinced, and I do not intend to stain your record with it now. I simply now have evidence to believe that we were led astray." I used the pronoun 'we' only for his comfort, of course, as I had been skeptical of the outcome even then, but it had been early in my career and I'd had much more interesting cases to follow up.

"Led astray?"

"Yes. Very handily, too, may I add. But I'm afraid I'll have to leave you in suspense as to the details - you know how I like to do these things, Inspector. I do have a few more questions before I go. Do you remember that other fellow you were following up on, before he came up with an alibi?"

Lestrade nodded, though it was clearly a struggle to recall that name. I waited in silence - though Lestrade was hardly a genius, he was thorough, and if given time could usually come to the right conclusion. Usually I had not the time or the patience to allow him, but the particulars of this case would not change given a few minutes one way or another. Besides, though I was loathe to admit it, I had grown used to having a sounding board for my ideas. I had grown to depend on it. Lestrade would have to do for this one.

The inspector snapped his fingers suddenly and rose again, this time turning to the shelf where his notebooks were arranged chronologically. Drawing out one of the early ones, he flipped it open and consulted his shorthand scrawl.

"Reynard Ryley! That was it," he finally cried, some genuine recollection in his expression. "Dark fellow, wasn't he, and cool as the Thames. Retired sergeant, crack shot by all accounts."

"But the circumstances of his alibi were airtight."

"Quite. Handful of witnesses all ready to swear he was at the club playing bridge all that night."

"I don't suppose you remember any of them, either."

He had to consult his notes again, but nodded. "I've notes on most of them. The three who were at his table roused my suspicions especially; a right queer bunch they were. Yuri Zhulin, Paul Neville, and Russell Scrivenor - a russian, an ugly fellow like to a skeleton, and a shifty lad who laughed at everything."

I folded my hands together and considered. Though I had only intended to inquire about the informant, a new possibility had occurred while Lestrade was searching his notes, and I found that I rather liked the shape it was taking. "Ryley, Zhulin, Neville, and Scrivenor... must make for an interesting game of whist. Right, thank you, Inspector. I think that's all I need."

I left the station, but rather than return home to Baker Street, had the cabbie drop me off at Enfield Wash and made my way to the modest headquarters that I had shown Watson not all too long ago. The neighborhood was not a good one, but the building was sturdy and the people within it were mine. Even so, I had brought a cheap violin rather than risk my Stradivarius, and it was this I settled between my knees and began to absently bow. Between chords I jotted notes upon a fresh paper, slowly devising the most intricate criminal scheme I had yet put into play.

This one would be very, very delicate. I could not afford a mistake.

* * *

_Holmes and I both realized about halfway through that this was more of a brainstorming session than an actual chapter._

_Paul Neville and Yuri Zhulin are borrowed from friends and will now be put back where I found them._


	13. Part II Ch 13: Preliminaries

My plan had been carried out to perfection, and now I stood at my mirror, dressed in an old suit that filled out my thin frame and carefully adjusting an auburn goatee.

"You look obscenely pleased with yourself," said a voice from the general vicinity of the sitting-room door. "What have you done this time?"

"I've sent Countellinus a gift," I answered, dusting red into my hair.

"A 'gift'?" The voice rose with suspicion. "What sort of 'gift'?"

"Oh, just a little something. The Crown Jewels of Ireland."

"_Holmes!_"

"Don't worry, old boy, I'll have them back soon enough. Have you seen my hat, the one with the wide - ah, here it is. You see, Watson, most men - all of the great ones, especially - have one point that can always be exploited."

He waited in patient silence while I rooted about for my smoke-tinted lenses, eventually finding them and joining him in our hearthside chairs. "That point would be curiosity. One can ensnare many a man with a simple appeal to their curiosity, and I daresay that the Crown Jewels arriving on one's doorstep would arouse any man's curiosity. A little letter implying the benefits of a partnership between himself and Sigerson sealed the deal, particularly when it became nearly fulsome in complimenting his own sizable skills. That's the other thing that one needs when dealing with a careful man like the Count. Curiosity will get you in the door nine times out of ten, but to catch a great man, one needs to ferret out a flaw in their character. Great men suffer great flaws, and in the Count's case, it is the sin of pride that will be his downfall, for you see..."

Concern tilted his brow as my speech faltered. I sank back in my chair, the energy suddenly drained from me. "For you see, I have taken leave of my senses, and am holding forth to an hallucination."

"You haven't slept in eight days," the vision of Watson supplied, in a scolding tone that brought an inexplicable ache to my chest. "And have been subsisting almost entirely on coffee. That's a bit much even for you."

I heaved a sigh and, forcing myself to my feet, replied, "There is no peace for the wicked." Before my mind could conjure an answer for him, I had shrugged on my seedy coat and gone.

As I had begun explaining to the figment of my overkeen imagination, my letter and gift to the Count had successfully roused his curiosity. The summary was that after a few terse correspondences, he had agreed to a meeting of agents to discuss the matter, and I was not willing to trust such a personal mission to any of mine. I hoped, or rather planned, with careful wording and a few backhanded insinuations, to arrange a further _tête-á-tête_ between Sigerson and the Count himself.

With a half-hour's cab ride I was at the meeting place, a seedy and out-of-the-way bar with the odd name of the Broken Shingle. I entered and cast a surreptitious glance about the place. Spluttering lamps cast meager light that struggled through clouds of tobacco smoke, achieving a moody dimness. The smell alone told me much more than I ever wanted to know about the people inside, and likely about the patrons of several years past for I was sure the place had not been cleaned anytime this decade, but luckily there was only one patron that I was interested in, and I did not need to strain to deduce where he was. His was the only clean face. Now the only challenge was getting to him without being relieved of my purse.

The years since the Merripew case had not changed Russel Scrivenor much from the narrow, nervous youth I remembered, only that he now sported a beard that filled out his face. He spotted me quickly, his dark eyes narrowing in a suspicious glare when it became clear that I was approaching him. "What d'you want?" He demanded in a feigned low-class slur. The mug before him had not been touched - not that I blamed him, considering the cloudiness of the brew within.

"Same as you, sir," I answered easily in a false voice, wondering that a man like the Count could not find a better agent in London. Perhaps it was meant to show his opinion of Sigerson. Either way I felt mildly insulted. "A friendly drink and a friendly face."

His suspicion lessened. "Your tie's undone."

"And your shirt is smudged."

With the passing of the pre-arranged greeting, he relaxed visibly and laughed. "Good man. Have a seat. No man should drink alone."

I sat, adjusting the chair so I would have a good view of the whole room. "No man should drink at all in this establishment, but the people mind themselves." I would still order a mug of my own when the girl came by, for appearances' sake. "Shall we get right to business?"

"Of course," he chuckled, "I'd rather not spend too long in here, either."

As we began to negotiate - or rather, Scrivenor began to extol Countellinus' virtues and would not let me get a word in edgewise - I balanced my attention between him and the rest of the bar. I was not too worried about trouble - a fight might break out at a moment's notice, but they usually settled themselves just as quickly - but a too-keen ear would not do at this point in the proceedings. A total of four patrons left, were replaced by seven others, the after-supper drifters were starting in. A boy scampered through the place and left seven pence richer. The serving girl brought by my drink and smiled when I tipped her tuppence. Lestrade had been right, Scrivenor laughed too often. The beer was barely palatable.

"So, you see, Mr. Linus' business is doing very well on its own. I suppose the question is, what more can your Mr. Sigerson offer?"

"A basis in London, for starters. Mr. Sigerson is very well-established here."

A young woman entered, out of place with her clean dress and hair. She wrung her gloved hands as she stepped into the bar, clearly trying to ignore the many glances that turned her way while her own gaze passed over each of the figures. Searching for someone, then; a male relative in all likelihood. This was no place for such a woman.

"Mr. Linus is more than capable of handling himself in London."

"Mr. Sigerson has no doubts about that, however, if it-"

I was cut off, not by the sharp cry from across the room but by the fact that it had drawn my companion's attention away. Grudgingly I looked to see what the fuss was.

The young woman, of course. She had upset a table somehow, knocked over a drink, and now the drinker had seized her by the shoulders. "Sorry!" she exclaimed in a too-high voice, clearly put out by his familiarity. "I'm so sorry for my clumsiness, sir, I'll pay for it-"

"Tha's aright, darlin'," he slurred, a lascivious grin spreading on his face. "Jus' give us a kiss, eh? 'At'll cover it!"

She began to struggle in earnest at this suggestion, and more so when he pulled her closer. "Sir, please, unhand me! This is highly - let _go_!"

Movement caught my eye, but I had hardly blinked before Scrivenor was already halfway across the room. He grabbed hold of the ruffian and spun him about, striking a blow to his cheek that sent him to the ground. "That is _not_ how one treats a lady," I heard Scrivenor cry.

I sighed and readied myself to join in, but it seemed neither the ruffian nor his friends were in the mood to brawl tonight. Likely they had caught sight of the revolver under Scrivenor's coat. They gathered up their fallen friend and slunk away, leaving Scrivenor to turn his attentions to the woman.

"Are you alright, miss?" He asked as he lead her away, back towards our table.

"I'm fine, thanks to you, sir. I don't know what I would have done if you hadn't... I can't thank you enough, sir. If I can repay you..."

He laughed, again, this time more gently for the woman's sake. "That's alright, miss, I don't take payment for teaching low men manners. But this is hardly a place for a lady like yourself, maybe you will allow me the honor of escorting you home?"

The man had the gall to court in the midst of a business meeting? I opened my mouth to object just as the woman did. "No, no, it's no trouble at all, sir, really. My home isn't too far from here, and I wouldn't like to interrupt-"

"Our business here isn't finished-"

"That makes it all the easier, then." Scrivenor cut the both of us off. "I'm sure my companion wouldn't grudge a short interruption to see a lady home."

She still hesitated, darting a glance at me. "I-I don't know, it doesn't seem proper..."

"Let my friend accompany us, then. He can ensure my conduct."

The young woman was still uncertain, but seemed to have run out of arguments, as had I. She finally nodded. "You make a convincing case, sir."

"Russell Scrivenor," he supplied with a charming smile.

She returned it shyly. "J-Joanna. Joanna Johnson."

When gestured to, I supplied, "Montgomery."

A few short minutes later, we were all three in a cab, sailing over the cobbled streets towards the address Miss Johnson had given. While Scrivenor filled the silence with prattling and she supplied soft responses to his queries, I had plenty of time to examine her. Miss Johnson was a good-sized woman of a bit more than thirty, with brown hair done up in a conservative style, and blue eyes. She might have been pretty but for an unfortunate mole by her lip on the right side that drew the attention. Her dress was secondhand and high-collared, no hint of a ring under her faded gloves. She fidgeted with them whenever she spoke, and kept her eyes averted the whole trip. Nervous, perhaps innately shy, and a little embarrassed, explained when she admitted that she'd been there looking for her father.

I could not understand Scrivenor's fascination, although I admit I had a nagging feeling I had met the girl before, perhaps on a case.

The cab pulled to a stop before long, in front of a line of low-rent apartments. There was a light in one, which Miss Johnson spotted as soon as I did. "Oh, he must be home," she said, climbing down from the cab before Scrivenor could scurry about to help her. He was still in time to take her hand, though, prompting her to pause. "Thank you both, Mr. Scrivenor, Mr. Montgomery." She glanced at each of us with a nervous smile, then hastened to the door.

Scrivenor waited until she was out of sight before turning to me, his grin for once reaching his eyes. "Shall we walk back, Mr. Montgomery? It's a fine night." He was evidently quite pleased with this turn.

So pleased was he, in fact, that he not only tipped the cabbie well, but we had finalized a meeting between Sigerson and Countellinus in the time it took to walk back. We parted at the door of the Shingle, neither interested in returning to the establishment.

That night I drove out to my modest headquarters again. Baker Street held too many memories, evidenced by the events of this morning, and I was in no state to handle the dreams and delusions that accompanied it

I set coffee to brewing in the kitchen and ascended to my burrow, not looking forward to another night of grim consideration and discordant notes upon the violin.


	14. Part II Ch 14: All According to Plan

The week before my meeting with Countellinus was marked with a buzz of activity and intrigue. Every paper hummed with variations of the same song; how Count Telos had decided to grace London with a social trip. At the same time, pedestrian traffic in the area of Enfield Wash suddenly increased, to my utter lack of surprise, and inquiries after Sigerson began to pile up. I discovered the need to slip innumerable tails each time I ventured out of my headquarters. For the sake of my identity I avoided Baker Street and took to lodging in my office instead. It wasn't as if I spent any time sleeping anyhow. A letter delivered via Irregular kept Mrs. Hudson from wondering after me. I expected she would seize the opportunity to clean.

I felt that the day of the meeting could not come soon enough. It was not my usual feeling of excitement, of knowing that the third act was only just out of my grasp and that I would conduct every gripping chord to a captivated audience. It was more a feeling of empty anxiety and pointless energy. Not that I was excited, but rather I felt that if I stopped for even a moment, the world would close in around me and crush all the air from my lungs.

Without the distraction so often provided by my chemistry, and unable to focus on further criminal ventures, I was forced to find other ways to fill my time. Rambles through the heart of the city, my mind focused entirely on reading out the life's stories of every person that passed, proved enough to keep me occupied. It also proved to be problematic. Though some of my own men did keep a constant eye on the headquarters, I still returned from one such walk early Wednesday to find signs of burglary about the place. My notes had been rifled, but nothing had been taken.

Nor was the Count's trip canceled or rerouted. In fact, he was confident as ever. The very moment that Count Telos' train was arriving in London, an official in the banking industry was assassinated outside his own home. An unrelated horror, unless one was privileged to know how the unfortunate Mr. Jackson Hall had been standing in the way of Telos' crusade for his father, at which point the matter became such that even Wat- that it was child's play.

Time seemed to drag its heels the whole way, but finally the meeting was only a few hours out, and I was at Baker Street once more. I had arrived only to deliver a letter to Mrs. Hudson, but still I found myself ascending the stair to stand in the sitting-room doorway. Everything was as I had left it, mess and all. I took a deep breath, savoring the scent of _home_ that met me.

It was with some reluctance that I descended again to knock at the landlady's door. It was only a minor imposition that I asked of her, and she accepted the task readily.

Then it was back to my headquarters, to the blond hair and the slightly padded suit and the makeups and cremes. An hour later Sigerson emerged, was met by his bodyguard with a cab, and was off to his meeting.

The site had been agreed upon by both of us, and was simultaneously respectable and confidential: The private party-room of a lovely hotel. It was a large and welcoming room, furnished in warm honey-tones and trimmed in white, with cream-colored curtains drawn over the windows. Flanking each set of windows as well as both doors were large, dark men, each blending into the others in their monotony, their fine dress doing little to mask their rough origins. A single table had been set with a lavish lunch, at which sat Scrivenor as nervous and dapper as ever, and another man whose back was brazenly turned to the entryway. My arrival did not stir him in the least; indeed, he made no move to acknowledge my presence until I was standing at his very elbow.

No attempt at disguise was made by my host, though there was evidence that he had worn one in, and he certainly lived up to his reputation for good looks. He was as tall as I or more by a few inches, with proud nobility written into his every striking feature, from his trim form to his pale skin to his long raven hair pulled back in the Italian style. His tailored white suit and silver watch-chain bespoke his fashionable tastes, and clever ice-blue eyes glimmered with pleasure when they turned up to me. A pleasant smile played at his lips.

Scrivenor, meanwhile, was oddly silent and bore an expression that could only be described as 'smug'.

"Signore Sigerson, I presume?" he said with all the suaveness of his Sicilian ancestry. "Take a seat."

I bowed. "And you, of course, require no introduction, my friend Countellinus."

" 'My friend'? We shall see about that, Signore Sigerson. My acquaintances are many but my friends are few. Would you like some lunch?"

"Certainly a pragmatic viewpoint. No, thank you."

"You are sure? You look so thin."

"I am certain, mister Countellinus. I came to do business, not to eat."

"That is a shame. The food is quite good. I have always had some weakness for your English cooking, although you are perhaps a little prudish with your garlic. The curry more than-"

"Mister Countellinus. As I said, I came to do business, not to go on at length about food. Is there some problem?"

"Ah," the Count said. He dabbed his mouth delicately with a napkin before continuing. "Yes, I am afraid there _is_ a problem. Only a small matter, but it does rather rewrite the script for this conference. I am sure you agree... mister _Holmes_," he purred, gesturing minutely with ring-studded fingers. The door closed quietly from somewhere behind me; my bodyguard taking the signal to leave. He had been bought off, naturally. Sometime last Tuesday.

I laughed, slipping off the wig from my head and setting it deliberately in Telos' plate. "There always is, Countellinus." His smile flickered a moment. "Tell me, why agree to meet with me at all if you knew who I was?"

"You don't wish to know how I found you out?"

"No, no," I waved him off. "I know that part well enough. Methods are a simple matter of deduction, motives a bit less so."

He looked nothing short of disappointed, but he recovered admirably. "Very well, then, that's the more interesting part of the plan anyways. I met with you, mister Holmes, for two reasons. The first was pure and simple curiosity. You are something of a legend to the criminal class, both by your christian name and your Norwegian alias. Sherlock Holmes is a phantom whose name appears only in whispers, but when said in conjunction with one's own case, the criminal knows that his end has come. It's not many a name that can hold that effect, sir."

"I am flattered. And the second reason?"

Here the Count's eyes sparkled. "Also simple. I shall have the honor of being the man that destroyed such a phantom, not only in person but in name as well. A credit to my career, I should think."

"It would certainly be something to boast, but I should think it would be difficult to arrange."

"Not really. All the events are set quite in order. The public loves me, Mister Holmes, yet here you have been checking up on me, digging into my records and leaving your marks in a few places where you really oughtn't have. Mad with grief over your close friend and biographer's death, you took to this insane path and came after me, convinced of my guilt in some matter or another. You were quite unreasonable when you burst in - the maitre d' will attest to that - and interrupted a peaceful lunch with my friend Scrivenor, launching at me a number of unsightly and unfounded accusations. When you drew a weapon, I was forced to defend myself."

"It's unfortunate that you won't survive the process," Scrivenor added, and laughed. He rose and moved to the door as the Count gestured at him, no doubt to cut off my path of escape.

I raised a brow. "You seem to have it all figured out," I said, and drew out my watch. I did not have to look at him to feel his cold eyes bore into me as his smile started to slip again. "There is but one thing you have failed to take into account. I _am_ Sherlock Holmes, and there is a _reason_ my name is spoken so reverently.

"You see, my dear _Count Telos_, at this very moment in Florence, the Italian authorities will be receiving a very singular package postmarked from London. This package contains more than enough evidence to connect you to Countellinus and open a warrant. Should they follow the suggestions further laid out in these papers, they will have found irrefutable evidence of your connection before anything you might send could reach your men. You, along with the highest echelons of your network, will be on trial within the month, and I expect the gallows for you all shortly thereafter. There are some things that even the most handsomely-paid attorney cannot refute."

The Count had grown increasingly red as I spoke, though his knuckles were bone-white where they knit against each other. He let out a forced chuckle. "Well, I can see that I've underestimated you, mister Holmes. Perhaps you are a man I can deal with-"

"There will be no deals, Countellinus. The thing is set in motion and no amount of money or promises passed over this table could stop it. In the meantime, there is also the small matter of the Yard, which shall be descending on this very building shortly, to arrest everyone present in connection to the unfortunate murder of mister Jackson Hall."

The Count leapt to his feet. "Do you think that all this will save you?" he all but spat, still barely holding onto his dignity. "I can still cut down the chief witness. The case would fall apart in the hands of my attorney."

"My dear Count," I said with an empty laugh, "Saving myself was never the point. Considering what I have on you, one murder one way or the other will really make no difference."

Any retort he might have formed was cut off by a crash from the front of the building that surprised the both of us. I had expected the Yard, yes, but I had expected them to be a few minutes more - Mrs. Hudson could not have delivered my letter in time for them to respond so quickly, could she?

"Sir!" Scrivenor cried, breaking the Count from his shock.

"Open fire!" he cried to his men. "_Dannazione_! Damn you! I'll have to start all over because of you!" He turned heel toward the back-door. I was after him in an instant, even as revolvers began to roar behind me.

I only caught up with him again in the alley, and bore him to the grimy street with a flying tackle, ruining his fine white suit. The fight was not as brief as it should have been - his strength was far less than mine, but his energy and will were substantial, and at some point between here and the table he had drawn a beautiful silver pistol. He struggled against me like a frenzied animal, throwing off any attempt to gain a grip or subdue him, until finally he got the gun between us and squeezed the trigger.

The sensation of being shot, I must say, is a singularly unpleasant one. Preceding everything by a fraction of a second is the sound, the sharp _crack_, though in my case it was somewhat muffled by the two bodies around it. Then came the smell, the acrid aroma of gunpowder. Then came the pain, a bright burst in my lower abdomen that reverberated through my whole system. Then came shock, a detached dizziness, almost euphoric, like the high of the cocaine.

All this happened in a matter of moments. I was vaguely aware as the Count rolled me off him, even tried to stop him but my limbs weren't quite answering to me anymore. He scrambled to his feet and turned to run again, when a blur of dark blue caught hold of him. There was the far-away sound of a strike, and the Count's white form crumpled beside mine.

The blue blur, which I was belatedly able to identify as a constable's uniform, stepped over him and knelt beside me. He spoke, concerned, but I did not care to listen; the voice was a mere buzzing in my ears. Then his face came into my view.

If it had not seemed like too much effort, I would have laughed for sheer elation, the great weight of guilt finally lifting from my shoulders. I knew then that I had done my duty. I would not wake up again. For instead of the constable, I saw Watson. He was here to take me where I belonged. He looked at me with anxious eyes and I could not help but to smile at them. Of course he would not think it was my time yet. Were it left up to Watson, I would live forever, no matter my crimes. My dearest Watson.

So I smiled, and I whispered my assurance. "I'm ready to go now."

And then I closed my eyes and let the darkness take me in.

* * *

_Count Telos still belongs to my friend Nergalitos, and I take full responsibility for Scrivenor._

_Beta'd from this point on by the lovely Adidasandpie._


	15. Part II Ch 15: Returning to Baker Street

Though I am, naturally, of a rather foggy memory when it comes to the next stretch - I later found it to be two days that elapsed - I do recall with unnerving clarity a certain voice that pervaded my unconscious mind. It said many things, sometimes trembling, sometimes filled with false bravado, sometimes even pleading, and as I had no sense of time or interval they seemed to crowd together all at once.

_"No, Holmes,"_ it said,_ "You're not going anywhere. You're going to continue aggravating people for a long time yet. Just don't give up. Holmes? Don't you dare. You're not ready yet. You're going to be alright. Please, Holmes. Don't go. I still need you. I'm sorry. Please, stay with me. Don't make me follow you down that last road."_

Then there came the sharp clap of a gunshot, and I suddenly found myself conscious and alert. Moments later, my gut informed me that my sitting bolt upright had been very ill-advised, which it achieved by such a burst of pain that I felt I might pass straight back into unconsciousness just to escape it. Only by laying back and remaining still did the pain begin to ebb, cutting back to a dull throb.

By that time I was already aware that I was in a hospital bed, cut off by curtains from the rest of a wing. By the surroundings that I vaguely recognized, particularly the sounds of city traffic drifting through an open window further down the hall, I surmised it to be the second floor of St Mary's in Paddington, and that it was sometime about either early morning or midday, for the street was quite busy and the light was strong. I personally had been divested of my clothes, which had been replaced by a patient's robe and a thick set of bandages around my midsection. The orderly who had last attended me wore an expensive brand of aftershave, had rough callouses, and had been distracted while applying the bandage. What had likely woken me - what I had initially taken for a gunshot - was the loud slam of a door at the end of the wing. The nurse on duty, who was walking this way, wore flats and had a long stride, and there was a much smaller person with her, a child. I could deduce nothing from these observations but that I had somehow survived my wound.

The first thing that struck me was a sense of utter foolishness at my earlier delusions. Spirits come to take me away, indeed. I should feel embarrassed for entertaining such romantic notions, even if I could chalk them up to enormous stress and blood loss.

The duty nurse peered through the curtain, her small companion darting off before I had a look at him. She was quite tall, fitting her stride. "You're awake," she said without any inflection.

"Your observational skills are scintillating," I replied, or rather rasped unintelligibly through a dry throat and was reduced to coughing. The nurse's hands were on me in a few moments, helping me to sit up and then pressing a glass of water to my lips once the fit had subsided.

"You're a very lucky man," she said in the same flat tone as she went about checking my bandages. "Usually gut-shots spell nothing but slow and painful death. Yours passed right through and missed anything vital. You ought to thank your guardian angel. There, now as you're awake I'll ring for some lunch. Will you be wanting anything more?"

"A cab."

Her voice finally rose half a note with surprise. "Sir?"

"I wish for a cab, that I might not spend another minute in this place. If I am to convalesce I should prefer to do it in my own home, without strangers prodding at me. You may omit the lunch, as well. My stomach is already in dire enough straits without having to contend with hospital fare."

She pursed her lips together, but otherwise was unfazed by my admittedly caustic comments. Looking back I admit to some admiration for her imperturbable character, for all that her bedside manner was wanting. Too many English ladies have the unfortunate tendency to become faint and tremble at the slightest hint of unpleasantness. She simply replied, "As you wish, sir," and slipped out.

It was some fifteen minutes before the curtain moved again, but this time it was a man's face that peered in - a constable, to my surprise, a middle-aged and neatly groomed man who regarded me with remarkably large eyes. "Mister Holmes, sir? I'm constable Oskinner. The lady says you want to leave."

"I intend to spend no more time in this dreary place than I must, yes. But I suppose you're under orders to keep me here."

"No, sir, I'm to escort you back."

I need not say that this was an unexpected answer. "By whose order?"

"Inspector Gregson's, sir."

I wondered that Gregson would have ordered such a thing. Would it not be simpler to keep me confined to my hospital bed? Had he observed me closely enough in our time together to understand my hatred of such confinement? Oskinner showed every sign of honesty, so a trap from some enemy quarter was to be ruled out, unless, of course-

I then decided that I was overthinking the matter. "See what they've done with my clothes, then."

Presently I was standing again in the familiar entryway of my Baker Street apartments, gingerly removing the coat that was quite stained with blood and would give the landlady a fit when she saw it. I was not quite ready to ascend the stairs before me yet and face the ruined sitting room, so took my time in hanging up my coat and setting my cane in its proper place. The scents of home, at least, brought me some comfort, and these I breathed in deeply. There was the slight odor of burnt chemicals that Mrs Hudson could never quite get out of the carpet, the old wood and dust, the medley of tobaccos that permeated every surface, including the rich and pervasive scent of the Arcadia mixture, the candle-wax and oil - Mrs Hudson had switched her brand again - and more subtle scents of curry and savory meats and coffee, the remnants of many meals long past.

My hat was half-ways to a hook when I paused, recalling and studying the aromatic inventory. I took another deep breath, sniffing once, twice, three times - yes, yes! The tobacco! Could it be, I wondered with a thrill, could it be? I had to know, even if it was nothing, even if it was but another hallucination. With no thought to my wound, I bounded up those seventeen steps and threw open the sitting-room door.


	16. Part II Ch 16: Everything is Set Right

"Are you certain that he will be returning soon?"

Inspector Lestrade paced, dark eyes catching on details of the mess which had once been the Baker Street sitting-room. Gregson behind him occupied the one undamaged piece of furniture - my armchair - and though we had righted the poor lacerated settee, Lestrade seemed more content to circle, much to his rival's amusement. As for myself, I leaned against the sideboard to take the weight from my leg, but had it not been bothering me I would surely have been pacing as energetically as Lestrade. Even Gregson for all his outward calm could not help an agitated vibration of his leg. I like to think that, given the circumstances, our energy was not unwarranted - mine especially. Being dead was a surprisingly stressful matter. Of course, it may help if one achieves that label through a more usual route, but that would hardly have solved my - our - problem in any satisfactory manner.

I took a steadying draught from my cigarette before I answered. "If I know Holmes, he'll have demanded a cab home the moment he's discerned that he's not there already, and walk if he can't get a cab. He hates hospitals."

"He doesn't seem much fonder of his own quarters," Gregson observed.

"He has been much put-upon recently. Halloa, I fancy that's him now." There came the clatter of a cab down below, and the downstairs door opened. Lestrade paused, hovering between the settee and the mantle like a hawk in mid-stoop. My heart hammered so loudly in my ears that I hardly heard as two sets of footsteps entered the front hall and lingered there for an agonizingly long moment.

Then one of those sets pounded up the stairs, and the sitting-room door flew open with a bang. Holmes - who, to my quick clinical eye, looked far too pale and haggard and was doing no good at all by his wound - stopped there in the doorway, his mouth agape, confusion and comprehension warring on his for-once open features.

Relief, pride, and not a small amount of mischief curled my lips into a smile. "Good afternoon, Holmes," I said, remarkably more casually than I'd thought I could manage.

Holmes took a step forward, and then the shock caught up to him and his eyes rolled back in his skull, body collapsing like a marionette with its strings cut. I was only just quick enough to keep him from striking his head on the edge of the dining table.

"Mister Holmes!" cried Lestrade and Gregson in unison, appearing at my elbows. The three of us carried him to my untouched chair. Lestrade was dispatched back to the sideboard for brandy while I checked him over, finding that his skin was clammy and his pulse quick, but that this appeared to be nothing more worrisome than a fainting spell.

"Never thought I'd see Sherlock Holmes so shocked," Gregson commented, a smile in his voice.

Lestrade agreed, "You'd almost think he was caught off-guard, heaven forbid."

They were entirely too amused for my tastes. "He's lost a considerable amount of blood," I argued, pressing the glass to my friend's lips. "And probably hasn't eaten in several days. This would be a significant upset for any man. Of course, if you make mention of it to anyone, I shall be forced to further defame you both in the context of my next publication."

Holmes sputtered awake before either could answer. His gray eyes fluttered open and glowed like stars, his face breaking into a genuine smile. "Watson!" he cried, grabbing and squeezing my shoulders as if to ensure that I was no phantom. "It is you! I knew I recognized the scent of your Arcadia tobacco. Ha!" His smile faltered. "But, the body - I examined it myself! How did you...?"

"Didn't examine quite close enough," Gregson said. Holmes seemed to realize only at that moment that we were not alone, and composed himself quickly, pulling his hands away.

I sent Gregson a withering glare. "All in good time, my friend. You've had a bad shock."

"Nevermind that!" Holmes exclaimed in impatience. "I know you, Doctor, you'll try to get food in me first, but I swear I couldn't touch a bite until I heard how you did it."

Of course, he was quite adamant. Unfortunately for him, so was I. "All in good time," I repeated, and my sober expression curtailed further argument. "I won't force you to eat, much as you need it, but there are some things that must be squared away before we can meet amiably. Resurrection comes at a price."

Holmes' mind whirred through more reactions than I could name, betrayed only by the merest of twitches and quirks in his expression. When he did not express any of them, I continued. "I'm sure you've already guessed at the nature of our stipulation. You shall end your criminal escapades, using your contacts only once more in order to reverse what damage you can, and henceforth use your powers only in the pursuit of justice and good - and no, I shan't argue with you the precise philosophical definition of 'good'. If it would be difficult to convince me of its moral justification, you probably shouldn't do it."

I could hardly disguise my anxiety as he remained silent, folding his fingers together and tapping them against his chin and lower lip. I finished my cigarette and lit another.

"Why?" he finally said.

"Why what?" Lestrade snapped, incredulous.

"Inspector, please. Holmes, you have been an invaluable boon to the people of England, a priceless resource, and you _were_, at least, my good friend. None of us wants to see your incomparable mind waste to nothing in a dank cell, or be lost forever to the gallows. You've proven that you're still worth saving, now we just need your word that you'll keep to it."

"I'm surprised that my word still means anything to you."

I nearly smiled. "You are not a man to give your word lightly," I said, "and if you have changed that much, then we'll find out soon enough, anyhow."

Holmes nodded and fell into contemplative silence again. Finally he nodded. "I appreciate the lengths that you've gone to in order to keep me out of gaol, and it would be a true disservice to let such efforts go to waste. Very well. I give you my word that Sigerson is retired, that I will recover and return all that I have stolen, and that in future I shall devote my attentions wholly to apprehending my successors. But," he added, "I do have two small preconditions of my own."

I glanced at the Inspectors, more to give myself something other than Holmes to look at, otherwise I should have likely agreed before I'd even heard the conditions. Lestrade scowled, something akin to the words 'you're in no position to make demands' hovering at the tip of his tongue, and he refused to meet my gaze. Gregson looked curious, and upon meeting my eyes he nodded, his shoulders rolling in a minute shrug.

"Alright," I said. "What are they?"

"Firstly, Watson," he said in a tone of absolute, grave seriousness. "I demand that you grow back your moustache. You look deucedly strange without it, and its absence is really beginning to disturb me."

The two of us managed to keep our straight faces for a grand total of three seconds, counted off by the ticking mantle-clock, and then we both proceeded to lose our composure completely and burst into laughter. The oppressive atmosphere dissipated immediately, and suddenly, despite the chaos of the sitting-room and the stress of the last several weeks, it was like old times once again.

"I think I can accommodate that. And the second?"

"You must tell me, how in the world _did_ you manage this breathtaking deceit? My health cannot bear any further suspense."


	17. Part III Ch 17: Alliances Made

**PART THREE: Outwitting the Master

* * *

**

On the afternoon of June 2nd, 1889, had one occasion to peer through the curtained windows of No. 483 Kensington Road, one would find a very sorry sight indeed: that of a once-proud man broken and defeated, slumped in his chair, empty eyes regarding the snub-nosed revolver that weighed heavily in his hands. Two letters sat atop the much-used writing desk before him. _My dear Holmes,_ read the one in an unsteady hand, _I cannot express how sorry I am that it has come to this._

I had not contemplated my own suicide in many years, not since the nightmares of war had faded and my life had been given purpose by a most eccentric roommate. That the same man should drive me straight back to that helpless despair was the very definition of tragic irony. That I felt the need to apologize to him for it was merely pathetic.

At length I lifted the revolver, crooked my arm, and pressed the cold ring of metal to my temple.

_"I cannot stand to see you endanger yourself,"_ Holmes had said the last time I had seen him. I almost laughed at the absurd timing of the thought. Maybe I _should_ have bled to death in that dirty cellar a week before, I thought. It would have been simpler. I pulled back the hammer with my thumb.

_"You know my methods, Watson. Apply them,"_ came another unbidden thought, and at this one my brow furrowed. I _had_, had I not? I had applied every trick of deduction I had come to learn from my time with him, and all had come to nothing.

My mind was going. It was time to end things before my nerve went with it. I closed my eyes, and willed my index finger to flex. With what I thought would be my last moment, I prayed that Mary would forgive me.

_"Do you realize how much was at stake down there?"_

I paused, my finger relaxing on the trigger. Suddenly, like jumbled gears finally slipping into place, my mind caught at his words and began to whir. He had been worried about me. Holmes, whatever callous and vindictive actions he was taking, did still care about my welfare. To take this initiative would wound him beyond measure.

And I could use that.

Provided, of course, that I found some way to survive the affair. That would be the tricky part.

The Webley shuffled, forgotten, onto some far corner of the desk, while blank paper and an unbroken pen was sought out and put to work.

_"You know my methods, Watson,"_ he had said to me. Oh, how well I did. And it was time to turn the tables. Desperate times call for desperate measures, after all.

I went to dinner that night more energized than I had felt since I was first abducted.

I could not do it alone, that I knew from the start - I have never been all that skilled at lying, or acting, or 'dissimulation' as Holmes has so eloquently put it time and again, and I had the singular fortune to choose the most dangerous opponent in London to practice against. I would need allies, people I could trust with not only my own life but Mary's, intelligent people that had the nerve to lie straight-faced to Sherlock Holmes. I needed people that were not loyal to Sigerson. I needed some way to contact them that Holmes would not know about. For a few days, my one ray of hope seemed to waver and ebb, as I realized once again that I could not know the extent of his network. It seemed that the only person I could trust was Mary, but I could not bring her into this. A remarkable woman she is, but no better an actor than I, and if Holmes contacted her under some friendly pretense she would surely give the game away. I couldn't risk her safety like that.

It was upon returning from my practice one day and handing my coat off to the page-boy that I was saved from falling once again into despair. The page was from a large family with no father, and we'd had some trouble with him early on, a matter of some small items disappearing from our guests. He was a remarkably bright boy, though, with clear potential just waiting for a little encouragement, and so I had convinced Mary and our housekeeper to give him a second chance. Since then he had always seemed to regard me very highly. As of late, he had been as concerned for my well-being as my wife.

"You look tired, sir," he said, in a far more friendly fashion than he would have if anyone else had been present to witness it.

As he hung up my coat, an idea formed, so quickly that I found myself heaving a sigh before I quite knew what I was doing.

"I am, Billy. My resolve is slipping. I think that if I should see Holmes again, I would surely break down and take his offer." The words fell from my lips with surprising ease, sounding weary and beaten and far more sincere than I would have expected.

Billy peered at me. "Pardon?" he said, adding a "sir" as an afterthought. I rubbed at my eyes, glancing through my fingers at his face. He looked confused, but I had yet to see if it was truly genuine.

"Nothing," I muttered. "Nevermind."

Billy reluctantly nodded, and returned to his duties.

When in two days Holmes had yet to appear at my doorstep, I tested again, choosing my words carefully and ensuring that I was well within earshot of the boy without directly speaking to him. Again, no reaction came. I wondered if perhaps I was just being less subtle than I hoped, but Holmes had expressed such eagerness for me to join him that I think he would have taken even the slightest invitation.

By then, I had also decided on my other allies: Inspectors Lestrade and Gregson. Holmes had once credited them as being the best of the Yard - faint praise, but praise nonetheless, and what they perhaps lacked in advanced intelligence they made up for in integrity. Neither would ever take on with a man like Sigerson. I could only hope they would listen to me if I asked them not to take confidence with Holmes, either.

The trouble of getting to them without alerting Holmes perplexed me for half a day, until the constable passed on his beat whistling a merry tune, and once more a memory of Holmes' voice arose. _"Constable Richardson is only honest because he's too simpleminded for any criminal to bother buying off."_ Richardson was the man on the Kensington beat in the mornings. I was confident that Holmes would carry on the tradition.

Billy was apprehensive when I pulled him aside, but as I explained what I needed from him, his face lit up. "You can count on me, sir, don't you worry about that!" he chirped.

At noon, he tipped his hat to me and darted out the door, fighting back a grin as he went about his task. Through a gap in the curtains I watched as he skipped toward the newspaper stand, tripped over the kerb and stumbled right into Richardson. The constable grabbed his shoulder to steady him, then patted him on the head and went on his way. Billy returned with a copy of the Times and a triumphant grin.

A small envelope had been slipped into Richardson's lapels, and soon would be on its way to its intended recipients.

_Inspectors Lestrade and Gregson,_ it read on the outside. I made no attempts to disguise my writing - if it was intercepted, then there would be no doubt as to its origins, anyhow.

_Inspectors,_

_I require your help. I have discovered something of vast import, but I cannot contact you directly lest I endanger not only myself but those closest to me, nor can I give you any specifics at this time. I realize that you are both very busy, what with this latest crime wave, but please believe that I would not waste your time unless it was a matter of utmost urgency. I can only ask for your trust and your cooperation, no matter the strange things I may task you with, and promise that I will make things clear as soon as I am able._

_I understand that I am asking a lot of you both. I would not blame you if you refused, but please, at least consider it._

_Please, whatever you do, do not bring this matter to Holmes' attention. Again, I cannot explain, but this is vital. __Do __not__ let Holmes know that I have contacted you._

_To confirm that this letter has reached you, and to give me your answer, send around the man Lestrade mentioned when last we met._

_John Watson_

For nearly a week, I would have no answer, and my anxiety grew with each passing day. Still I forced myself out of the house and to my practice, with Billy promising to keep a close eye on Mary and rush her to Kate's if anything suspicious happened. Had she relatives outside London, I'd have sent her to stay with them awhile.

Finally, with a fresh mystery in the papers and a waiting room full of hypochondriacs, my patience was rewarded by the arrival of a scowling Inspector Jones. His arm was encased in a thick plaster cast, as it had been for some weeks, since before this mess had started. For appearance's sake I made him sit for fifteen minutes, and then shuffled him into the consulting room when he loudly complained that he didn't have time to wait, he had a murderer to catch in an hour, and began describing the murder in visceral detail.

"Do you really?" I asked once we were alone.

He shook his head. "No, but I don't like waiting. Nor do I appreciate being used as a messenger boy." He glared pointedly, which I ignored in favor of inspecting his cast. Jones had never much liked me, but he was trustworthy - he would sooner shoot himself in the foot than associate with a man like Sigerson, and he wasn't all too fond of Holmes, either. "Lestrade says 'yes', by the way. Gregson says he'll 'personally tan your hide' if you're wasting their time - his words."

I could not keep the smile off my face, nor did I particularly try. "Thank you, that's very good news."

"If you say so, Doctor. I wish you the best of luck in whatever you're doing - anything that has Gregson and Lestrade in agreement is bound to be more trouble than I'd want to be mixed up in. Now, do you need anything else from me, or can I get back to doing my job?"

Jones left with a letter of instruction stowed in an inner pocket, and I returned to facing my patients, forcing myself to appear still-weary despite my raised spirits.

* * *

_This story purposefully ignores several points from VALL, such as Billy already being the Baker Street page-boy._

_The chapters prior to this one have been renamed and arranged into two parts, with this chapter kicking off part three._


End file.
